Silent Hill 5: Back of Beyond
by The 72nd Gunslinger
Summary: The story itself is now complete, after 2 and a half years! Thanks for reading, and special thanks to the reviewers whose positive feedback inspired me in my down time. Final proofreading currently in session.
1. Mother

Mandatory Disclaimer says I make no representation that I own any division of the Silent Hill franchise.

**PART ONE: _SOMETHING WICKED IN THE AIR_**

PROLOGUE

The Rebirth

Two days ago, Henry Townshend and Eileen Galvin experienced a terrible series of events. Henry began experiencing recurring dreams about the apartment's previous owner, Joseph Schrieber, and his death. He also found that he could not leave his room, as his door had been locked up from the inside with fifty feet of solid steel chain.

A hole appeared in his bathroom wall one morning, just when he was beginning to wonder if he would ever escape. He was reluctant to go through it at first, sure that it could not bode well, but eventually he became desperate and went inside. There, he found a twisted world beyond his wildest imaginings; a world reflected from the insane consciousness of a man named Walter Sullivan, a man whose tragic past would soon engulf the lives of those around him--Walter had been abandoned as an infant, and his only real desire in life was to see his mother once again.

It was revealed that Walter Sullivan had been the perpetrator of several murders in the neighboring town of Silent Hill, seven hours' drive from Henry's home town of Ashfield. 10 years ago, Walter had killed 10 people in 10 days, skillfully removing the hearts of each victim and then sewing the wounds back together. At first the reason for this was unclear. However, Joseph Schrieber's ghost communicated to Henry via a red notebook that the reason Walter did this was to become immortal; by sacrificing ten hearts from ten "sinners", Walter could then commit suicide as the 11th victim of his own twisted hand. At this time, he would "gain the power of heaven." This process was known as "The Ritual of the Holy Assumption."

After taking his life in the name of God, Walter did indeed gain such power, and he used it to create a world, a world in which he elevated himself to Godlike status. This world was based on his own delusions, paired with his desire to purify his mother and 'save' her from the real world. This world was the one into which Henry had been drawn, and it was the place of his fated meeting with his neighbor, Eileen. Walter had failed to end her life and, as a result, had come back twice as angry, intending to finish her off for good. It was only with Henry's help that Eileen was able to escape from Walter's repeated murder attempts.

Late in his journey into the strange other world, born from Walter's consciousness, Henry discovered a book countering the beliefs that somehow a "God" could be born from all this. The blasphemous book read, "The 21 Sacraments be not sacramental one whit. Those that be called the 21 Sacraments be naught but the 21 Heresies. She who is called the Holy Mother be not holy one whit. The Descent of the Holy Mother be naught but the Descent of the Devil. To give birth to a realm of wickedness within the blessed realm of our Lord be blasphemy and the work of the Devil. If thou would stop the Descent of the Devil, you must bury part of the Conjurer's mother's flesh within the Conjurer's true body. Thou must also pierce the Conjurer's flesh with the 8 spears of "Void," "Darkness," "Gloom," "Despair," "Temptation," "Source," "Watchfulness," and "Chaos." Do so and the Conjurer's unholy flesh will become that which it once was, by the grace of our Lord."

Void...Victim 12...Peter Wolls.

Darkness...Victim 13...Sharon Blake.

Gloom...Victim 14...Toby Archiboldt.

Despair...Victim 15...Joseph Schreiber.

Temptation...Victim 16...Cynthia Velasquez.

Source...Victim 17...Jasper Gein.

Watchfulness...Victim 18...Andrew DeSalvo.

Chaos...Victim 19...Richard Braintree.

Each of the themes that were the centerpiece for the twelfth through the nineteenth murders. Each spear represented a victim of Walter Sullivan, and by piercing them into the body of the Conjurer of the twisted otherworld, Walter Sullivan, one could return Walter's immortal form to that of a normal man. Henry followed the Crimson Tome, piercing the true body of Walter buried deep in his apartment with the 8 spears. When Walter's mortal body appeared, it was a race to victory, with Eileen's life at stake...and Henry's own mortal soul, as well as the souls of Walter's other 18 victims. Henry dealt the final blow to Walter, sparing his and Eileen's life and shattering Sullivan's illusion world mere seconds before he and Eileen would have joined the other victims.

The apartment once again opened, allowing Henry passage to the real world (or at least, the one he believed to be real) once more. The next day he visited Eileen at the hospital, thinking everything was okay...

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**CHAPTER 1**

**Mother**

"_I never wanted to ever bring you down_

_All that I need are some simple loving words"_

--SH4, "Your Rain"

Henry closed the door behind him, trying to hide the boquet of flowers in his left hand, hiding it behind his back and blushing softly. He stepped toward Eileen's bed, grinning sheepishly. When he realized Eileen was trying to see what it was he was holding, he extended the hand with the flowers in it.

"Aww," Eileen said, taking the bouqet and clutching it tightly. She looked up at Henry, gazing into his eyes. It had been a long journey, but they had both come out on top...and they were going to make the best of it. Henry gazed back with similar admiration. "Guess we can finally go back home, huh?"

"Yeah," Henry nodded, although he was quite reluctant to do so. It was easier for Eileen to say that because her apartment had not been severely haunted by the strange otherworld created by Walter--she could not possibly know the emotions that crippled his heart at the mere thought of returning. However, he was not going to make a mountain out of a molehill; now that Walter was gone, living in his apartment fearlessly would become a task very similar to that of a child overcoming his fear of the monster under the bed; it would take a long, long time, but it was possible.

"--ome today," Eileen said, looking out the window.

"What?" Henry asked, jolted out of his train of thought.

"I said, the doctor said I can go home today." Eileen's head shifted on her neck, and her eyes met Henry's. "You okay, Henry?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Henry assured her, massaging his temples. He felt the onset of another strong headache; he was getting them all the time now. They weren't as bad as the ghost-induced migraines of the otherworld, but they were unpleasant just the same. "Just a headache."

"Another one?" Eileen asked, although she didn't really sound interested. Henry didn't answer her.

Much later, when it was far too late, Henry would look back on that moment and think, _why didn't I see it then? Why didn't I think anything about it?_ He would come to blame this simple misinterpretation for much of what was to come.

Henry left Eileen to go get her things from the office downstairs, and then they left together, headed back for South Ashfield Heights. It had been a long two days, and Henry longed to be able to once again watch television and listen to the radio, if for no other reason than to prove to himself that his apartment was no longer haunted. He offered to drive the two blocks to the apartments, but Eileen suggested that they walk. Henry agreed, thinking that he would just walk back to the hospital later and pick his car up. The parking lot cops wouldn't like that, but he didn't think they'd lose a night of sleep over it. He could come back and pick it up in the morning.

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Henry opened the door of Room 302 of South Ashfield Heights with his eyes squeezed shut, honestly expecting to see blood, rust, and mesh covering the walls and floors. He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes for almost ten seconds. When he did, he did it quickly.

No blood. No rust. No mesh.

Better yet, no ghosts sticking out of the walls.

Things were good. With a short sigh of relief, Henry kicked off his slippers and tossed his coat on the counter dividing the kitchen and the living room, trudging over to the couch and dropping onto it. The couch made a satisfying _fwoff _as he leaned his head back, soaking it into the cushions like liquid Henry. He closed his eyes for a second...and suddenly, something didn't seem right.

He jerked his eyes wide open.

Nothing.

Everything was still normal. Everything still in its place. No ghosts, no blood, no nothing. Just good ol' bachelor lifestyle, in its truest form. He closed his eyes again, but more slowly, still not entirely sure that his room would stay the same.

Minutes passed, and Henry felt the urge to get up and move. He stood up, stretching his neck far back and cracking his knuckles. As he crossed the room into the kitchenette, his socks kicked up static electricity like sand on a beach, so when he put his hand around the door to the fridge, static shock caught him by surprise. He twitched, falling backward and narrowly avoiding a nasty fall by catching himself on the edge of the counter with his free hand. As he did so he let fly a short, girlish scream. Then he realized what had just happened, and he couldn't help but laugh at himself. "Just static," he said, shaking his head and sighing vocally, and opened the fridge.

There was a dead cat in the fridge.

Henry's heart stopped for a second, and he recoiled hard. This time he did fall, slamming his ass into the hard linoleum floor so hard that he cried out. Later he would think that he might have bruised his tailbone.

When he fell, the door handle flew out of his hand and the fridge door flew wide open. Henry didn't want to look, but he forced himself to, wanting to be sure, wanting it to not be true, but...

But it wasn't a dead cat.

It was a pound of roast beef. Henry remembered buying it at the grocery store last night.

This time he laughed hard and loud, cursing his own paranoia.Yeah, he had definitely been right earlier, thinking that it would be awhile before he got used to this. He rose to his feet, rubbing his sore tailbone with the ball of his right hand, and shut the door. Suddenly, he didn't have an appetite.

Leaving the kitchen, he went around the counter, stopping at the foot of the hallway. His bedroom was just down the hall; he could see the door from here. All he had to do was go down there, place his hand on the knob, turn and push, and he'd be home free...

Except he wouldn't be home free. He wouldn't _feel _home at all until he'd spent a great deal of time away from this room. It was really getting to him. He cast a cursory glance to the right, at the front door to the apartment. _That _seemed more like home, more than any other door in this room. He suddenly recalled the way it had looked, all chained up with no way to open it. He pictured the short note, written in red ink and personalized by Walter, as it had been written across the stained wood beneath the peephole. He remembered once looking through that peephole during that terrible twelve-hour period, and seeing himself staring back through, blood dripping from one corner of his mouth, head lolled back on his shoulders like an epileptic during a fit. He remembered that feeling of being watched, of knowing that the thing on the other side could see you, even when you didn't stand in front of the door...remembered the feeling that his only consolation was that it could see him but couldn't _reach_ him. In his apartment, weapons had seemed to have no effect on the monsters. Weapons only worked in the world on the other side of the hole, and not even always there...the ghosts could not be killed.

And to think he had almost been one. A shiver raced down his spine.

He approached the front door, knowing all to well that it would transform before his eyes, chains appearing in a cross-shaped grid to prevent access from the inside or the outside, effectively locking him inside of this living coffin. Because it was alive, wasn't it? That was how it could--

Henry could not, would not, think about it any more. He clasped the knob in his hand, turned it slowly, waiting for it to halt beneath his grip, waiting for that firm refusal...waiting for his sentence.

It never came. The knob turned and the door opened when he pulled on it. He burst forth into the hallway, already seeing the burnt flesh coating the walls, the squiggling worm-things, the creatures, the mesh...

Except there was nothing. No things. No mesh. No flesh. I do not want green eggs and ham, I do not want them, Sam I am.

Oh, God. He was losing it. "Get a grip on yourself." He felt like he was going to start to cry just out of sheer nerves. He couldn't live like this, not forever. He had to get out of South Ashfield Heights, as far away from room 302 as possible. Nothing could make him go back in there, nothing, you could set your watch and warrant on that, you could take that to the bank--

Watch and warrant? When had he ever said that before?

Oh, no. He wasn't going crazy here, not now, not after surviving that mess. Never. He realized he _was _crying softly. wiping tears away with his sleeves, he dashed down the hall to room 303. Knocked on the door three times rapidly. Expecting no answer. Getting one instead.

"Henry?" Eileen, half asleep already, and it was only five o'clock p.m. "Henry, oh my God, what's wrong?"

"Eileen, I..." he leaned against the door, covering his eyes with his sleeve, not wanting to be seen like he was but unable to help it. "I can't do this. I can't live here anymore."

"Oh, come on Henry, that's not true--" She tried to approach him, but he knocked her back.

"Yes it is," he cried out, taking the hand from his face. "I can't, Eileen. It's just that simple; I can't. My room...those monsters...the ghosts...Walter...the cat...pictures...I feel like I'm going crazy." He placed one hand on the side of the threshold. "I'm _not _going crazy, Eileen. I won't do it, not after all that. I just won't."

"Henry..." Eileen gazed at him sympathetically. It would be exaggeration for her to say that she knew how he felt, but it would be just as much for him to say she had no idea how he felt. They had both been through Hell...but it seemed that, in cushioning the blow to her, Henry had done more damage to himself than he could handle. Eileen couldn't even remember parts of her time with him; just large, grey areas, blank memories. She doubted Henry had that luxury.

"Henry, calm down. You're tired."

"I'm not tired," he said with certainty, and that was the end of that.

"You're not feeling well, that's certain," she insisted, and to that Henry could nod. "Why don't you come inside for a bit?"

Henry sighed, looking over her shoulder. Eileen wasn't entirely sure, but it seemed that he was checking for monsters.

Henry knew that was exactly what he was doing. It had been over twenty years since he had asked his own father to check his room for monsters...but here he was, a grown man, and checking under every cushion and in every dark corner for monsters.

Of course, most children believed that monsters were real. Most grown men knew they weren't. Henry, however, knew otherwise. And it wasn't just the monsters that scared him--he could kill the monsters without a second thought; he marveled that he had become such a violent, self-preserving person in such a short time. Amazing how extreme situations changed people.

He nodded and came inside, reluctant yet willing at the same time. He wanted to come in; here there was company, a kindred spirit, someone--probably the only person in the world--who could and would listen to his psychotic rambling without thinking a word of it insane. Here there was help in case something _did_ happen. Henry sat on the couch and clutched his forehead with one hand, his fingers forming a visor over his eyes. _Get it together, man_, he thought to himself. _This is not how you should be acting in front of Eileen._

No, that was his image talking; He had swallowed his emotion done what had needed to be done when it'd been necessary. Now it was _his _turn to be scared, it was _his _turn to be afraid, to be uncertain, to not know what to do next. As he thought these things, he felt Eileen's hand slip around his shoulder.

"Why don't you tell me what happened, Henry?"

At first he was reluctant, but then he shrugged and began. "It's just that room, Eileen...there's something wrong with it. Before, when I didn't know that, it was one thing. But now, it's like I can still feel the residue from Walter's world caked in the corners, or something. It's like there's something underneath the surface, just waiting for a chance to get back at me. It's just like that book I read in high school."

"You mean the one by that guy from Portland?"

"Yeah. I think it was called _The Town with Ten Faces._ It was a documentary on Silent Hill. When I read it back then for my English Lit class, I just thought of it as a kind of joke...but now...now it's like I'm the guy from that book. Every time I look at that room, I just want to run out, and never go back. It's almost like it's alive, like some kind of mouth, like I'm just walking into the jowls of some kind of monster." He blinked twice, to dry his eyes, then wiped the dry tears from them with his sleeve. "The way I feel about that room...it's just like the way that guy talked about Silent Hill."

"Don't think about it so much," Eileen said. "That's all over with now. You can just go back to your room, take a nap, maybe watch some TV, try to get reacquainted with the way things used to be--"

"Eileen, no," Henry said curtly. "I'm not staying here any longer." He stood up. "Maybe you can, if you want, but I plan to move out of here and go as far away as I can get. Maybe I can find a place in California...or Japan. My pen-pal Suguru might take me in for awhile, and there's nothing more pleasing to me than the idea of putting the molten core of an entire planet in between me and that apartment."

Yet some part of him knew that if the apartment wanted him, it would probably go to a thousand times that length to have him. But it was a comforting thing to say, just the same.

"I didn't mean to get you excited," Eileen said, trying to come off as soothing. "I just remembered reading about that in a book somewhere, about how if you're so afraid of something, you can overexpose yourself to it and you'll get over it. Something about the body producing limited amounts of adrenaline when you're scared."

Henry didn't respond.

"If it's getting to you this much...have you at least thought about seeing a psychiatrist about it?"

"No," Henry said. "Even if I found someone who did believe me, he would probably be just as disturbed, himself. Or herself." He turned to her. "Honestly...would it be reasonable for me to _expect _someone to believe me?"

Eileen sighed. She was running out of things to say. "Henry, do you want to stay here for the night? You can sleep in my bed, and I can take my old matress and use it. It's still usable." But already Henry was shaking his head.

"I hate this," he said, his eyes dark and his voice dead. "I hate _being _like this. I don't know what happened...it's like, before, it hadn't quite clicked yet. Before, when all that stuff was actually going on, I didn't really believe it. I didn't believe my eyes. But now...now, it's like it's finally hitting home. That stuff was real. Those people are dead. _Richard'_sdead."

"I know the feeling," Eileen said, and sat him back down. "You were like a blank in that place, Henry. You put away your fears because you had to. That's what makes me so proud of you. I couldn't do that...I just whined like a scared little kid. You stood up for both of us and took care of business, while I could barely keep up with you. All the way until the end, you did that."

Henry relaxed a bit at her words, but did not look at her. "Maybe," he acknowledged. _But it might have been for the worse._

"I mean, I admire you for doing that," Eileen said. "It's a talent I don't have. I don't think there are a lot of people in the world who would be able to adapt to a situation like that."

No answer.

"You sure you don't want to stay here for tonight?" She paused, waiting for a response. "I don't mind, really...I mean, if you want to."

Henry, in a better mood now than when he had come in two minutes ago, said, "I don't know...I guess I could, just for tonight, if I'm not imposing. But _just _for tonight. Just until I've had a chance to settle back in."

"Sure," Eileen said, and went to get the mattress from her hall closet and set it up in the extra bedroom. Henry only went back to room 302 once that evening.

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That night, Henry tossed and turned in Eileen's spare matress, unable to sleep. It wasn't this bad when he wasn't actually in 302, but he was still made mildly uncomfortable by the fact that there was still a small hole leading into his room from Eileen's bedroom. He wondered if the evil in that room could somehow seep into 303 and take over the clean air, replacing it with dirty, heavy air..._evil _air. Bad air. He thought not, but it was possible. Hell, _anything _was possible in 302. He rolled over in the large matress, staring at the faint pink-tinged-with-red wallpaper, trying without much luck to push the thought from his mind.

He heard movement in the next room. After what seemed like forever, the knob attached to the door on the other side of the room turned. He figured it was Eileen, but some paranoid part of his subconscious was expecting it to be Walter himself, come back for revenge. _That's got to be nerves, _Henry thought. _I don't think I've ever felt this...this _jumpy..._.ever before. Not even that time when I was--_

The door opened...

...and Eileen peeked in, trying not to let the door creak as she held it slightly open. "Henry?" she whispered. "Are you still awake?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm awake. Why?"

Eileen said nothing, just crept across the small room on her tiptoes. Now, he could see, she had on a purple see-through nightshirt, and nothing else. "I was just wondering if you were okay in here?"

Henry nodded, hoping she couldn't see the way his eyes scanned her average-sized breasts through the shirt. It was dark, after all...but fortunately not dark enough to hide her figure from him. He knew it wasn't polite to stare...but for some odd reason he felt compelled. As if his mind were trying to urge him to do things that he would not normally do, just _because _he wouldn't normally do them. He wondered--if that experience in Room 302 had changed him..._what _had it changed him into?

"I'm fine," he said at last, in a tense whisper.

"Okay," she whispered, and knelt down beside his head. "If you decide you need me...just let me know."

"Eileen--"

"I know," she interrupted, and popped the top button off of the nightshirt. It fell apart, allowing him a clear view of the cleavage between her breasts. She didn't have to open her mouth to speak; it was as if going through that world had given them a unique connection of sorts, as if it had linked their minds in some strange and fundamental way.

Henry wondered if she could see him, but then he saw her smile and nod, and he knew she could. She had seen him looking, then. He nodded, too, and she started on the next two buttons.

She whispered his name, undoing the last button, and the nightshirt dropped to the floor like a shed skin. Henry could now see her entire nude form, and it was perfect in every way...at least, Henry thought so. She pulled the blankets off of the bed with graceful ease and climbed onto Henry.

Fourty-five minutes later, the two of them fell asleep in a complex embrace. Just before drifting off, Henry made himself a promise: That he would never come running to Eileen--or _anyone_--like this again. That he would be strong, and not allow his emotions to get the best of him again.

Henry thought to himself that maybe, just _maybe,_ things would turn out okay after all.

END OF CHAPTER 1


	2. Two Princes

**Chapter 2**

**Two Princes**

_"I ain't got no future or family tree,_

_I know what a prince yo' lova ought ta be,_

_I know what a prince yo' lova ought ta be..."_

Spin Doctors, _Two Princes,_

_Pocket Full of Kryptonite_

Walter Sullivan sat before a desk in his study that late evening, reading a copy of _Nightmares and Dreamscapes _by Stephen King. He didn't normally have so much time to read--with this new school he was attending, there was nary a moment to spare outside of his planned study period after classes--but it was spring break, and he had decided to catch up on his Stephen King. He wasn't that big of a fan, or anything--he actually couldn't stand King, thought he wrote too damn much--but anything that would take his mind off of the mob that frequented his front lawn would do.

If it weren't for that damn crazy old man, Walter wouldn't be in the situation he was in now. It had all started when Stone insisted he take care of that new kid from St. Jerome's. It had been Stone's idea to name the kid after him; Walter had protested, but that had been not too long after that Claudia bitch had started all that trouble in Silent Hill, and Stone had been so sure that his plan would work. Well, it had worked, all right, and _this _Walter was just glad not to have been a part of it all.

Of course, thanks to stone, that brat had all but ruined his life; before, he had just been Walter Sullivan, struggling college student just out of the clutches of an insane organization. Now, he was Walter Sullivan, serial murderer. It was a classic case of 'out of the frying pan and into the fire.'

He'd never killed anyone in his life--hell, he had problems killing bugs, when it came down to it. Thank God they hadn't gone with the original plan, or else Walter would have been the one to wind up in prison. That stupid fool had gotten himself arrested, having carved his own name into the back of each of his victims. Idiot!

"I could've gotten away with it," Walter mused, sliding a Garfield bookmark onto his page and closing the book. He set it down on the desk and wandered to the far window, staring out and down at the street in front of the house.

A small crowd had already formed. Some of them were holding signs--'Baby Killer,' read one; 'Murderer' read another, and still a third read 'Walt the Ripper'. Most were people from in town--Pleasant River was small, but its people were dedicated, and if they found a cause, they stuck to it.

Walter almost opened the window and shouted at them, but he held back at the last moment. What good would it do? They had done this ten years ago, too, trying to drive him out of town first with threats and accusations and filthy anonymous letters. One man had threatened to tear off Sullivan's head and defecate down his neck. Of course, it hadn't been worded quite so politely. Walter had thought all of that was over with; people had begun to accept his claim that he was not the same man who had committed the murders, and had left him alone for awhile. Really, what had settled that had been the body. When 'Little Wally,' as Walter himself called him, had gotten arrested for the murders of Billy and Miriam Locane, that had cleared Sullivan's name.

Or so he'd thought.

Little Wally killed himself, and that should have been the end of it. Yet it wasn't.

Two days ago, the murders had started again. The murders, and the numbers, and the names. Walter had followed the newspaper articles--had actually driven down to Ashfield for the exclusives just yesterday--and had learned the basic details. There had been the woman on the subway, who had supposedly been hacked with a scythe; the man in the woods, who had been slashed and burned to death; the old Pig from the prison, Andrew (he could never forget that fool's face), who had been strangled and drowned; and the old geezer who lived near the Room Little Wally had always used to visit. They had found bodies in the woods outside of Silent Hill just yesterday.

And that wasn't the worst part.

Walter's fingerprints had been found at the scene. All over each of the bodies. And now the rioters were back. Things never slowed down, did they?

Looking out at the crowd--two more had drifted in from the street, and some had started to throw stones onto his lawn, unable to quite reach the two-story house itself--Walter sighed, and turned back to his book on the desk. There would be no more reading tonight; he was too stressed out. Shaking his head, Walter went back to his bedroom.

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Two nights ago, the dreams had started.

Walter had awoken early this morning, cold with sweat and barely able to remember a thing. There had been a man, and a woman, and...he had been there, too, hadn't he? He thought so, but it was still vague. And tonight, he didn't think he would be able to get back to sleep; he kept remembering bits and pieces of the dream.

There had also been a woman--young, a bit skanky in Walter's opinion, and with a slight accent--and there had been another, a young man with no face.

Or had there been a face? Ah, he remembered now: The man with no face, he had named him, because he never seemed to feel strong emotion. Walter couldn't remember his name, not quite, just that he had always been with that woman. Not the one with the accent, but the other--

"What the hell," Walter mumbled, running a hand over his sweaty, stubbly face. He was confusing himself. He lay back and closed his eyes, sure that he wouldn't be able to get to sleep even as he drifted off.

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_Hey there, little Walter...just...a little longer now._

_You're it, Henry. The last of the 21 sacraments. The final sign._

_"Eileen?"_

_Eileen..._

_RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR--_

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Walter awoke with a scream, drenched in sweat from head to toe. He sat up on the bed, releasing the tight grip he had gained on his sheets in the midst of his dream. That sound! That sharp, whirring death-sound...it was horrible. And that woman...she was walking right towards it! Now he remembered: The man with no face was Henry, and the woman he was with was Eileen. Walter knew the names, but not the faces.

Sighing, Walter climbed out of bed and moved towards the kitchen, meaning to get a drink. He didn't get past the door.

There was a note sticking out from under the bedroom door.

"Huh?" Walter cocked his head quizically, wondering what the orange piece of paper was doing there. Had he put it there? Did he even own a ream of orange notebook paper? He didn't think so. But he must have, he reasoned, so he picked it up.

_Go to him. Give him the number. The number is NINETEEN. 19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19..._

The number 19 repeated itself all the way down the sheet of paper. Walter turned it over, and saw that the number continued to cover the entire back of the sheet. "What _is _this?" Walter asked nobody, looking around him.Was there somebody else here?

An eardrum-shattering crash from down the hall startled a yelp out of Walter. It sounded like the wall breaking down. Was it those damn rioters again? If it was--

"I don't have to take this," Walter said, and reached into the top drawer of his bedside bureau. He pulled out a 9mm handgun--just a regular model, like any home defense weapon you might find--aimed it forward with both hands, and started down the hall.

"Whoever's there, you'd better come out now!" Walter said, his back to the wall. He saw nobody, but that didn't ease his tension; it only made it worse. "I mean it. If you don't show yourself...I'll shoot."

No sound.

Walter kept moving. When he reached the edge of the hall, where the wall he was up against made a right angle away from him and became the living room, he leaped out into the living room, gun aimed at what he believed to be the source of the noise. What he saw shocked him, and when his hands temporarily laxed, the gun fell to the floor and landed on the shag carpet with a _fwoof._

His desk was smashed in two. And there was a hole in the wall in front of the desk.

"Shit!" Walter exclaimed, and took a step forward, the gun already forgotten. He craned his neck forward to get a look inside the hole--it was massive, easily seven feet in diameter, a bit larger than a full-grown man--and saw only the edge of what appeared to be a tunnel. But that was impossible; the wall ended just three or four feet through the plaster, on the other side. That tunnel went at least twenty feet back into the wall, and then took a sharp downward angle. That was impossible, that defied space, it couldn't be here, it just couldn't!

"But it is," Walter mumbled, and stepped up to the edge of the hole. It was deeper than he had at first thought; it went back easily fifty yards; it was about as far back as the targets they used to practice on in ROTC, back in high school. Walter had been on Rifle team then, and--

_Oh, pay attention!_ Walter shook his head hard. He stuck his head into the hole, being careful not to lose his balance. If he fell, he might just go sliding down in there. Who knew where it might lead?

Immediately, he felt a strong magnetism. Not a physical force, exactly...but rather like a mental magnet, like something just barely pulling at the edges of his mind, beckoning him down and into the hole. He felt quite suddenly that he wanted to be down there, _needed _to be down there--

"This is insane," he said at last, and pulled his head out. He wasn't going down any hole, and he wasn't going crazy. _Something _was going on here, and he was damned if he wasn't going to find out who was behind it and--

But there it was again--that desire, that want, that need. He had to go down there. He didn't know why, and he didn't know how, but he knew...there was something down there. Something he needed to see. It was the feeling that, if he went down the tunnel, he might enter the next stage of some great game.

_What are you, crazy? _His mind whispered. _You can't just go jumping around in holes as big as you are! What if you get stuck? You think anyone's going to come and help you? You'll die down there, all alone...just like _him.

"No," Walter whispered, "I won't." He backed away from that hole. "That stupid kid...it was his fault, you know. It was Stone. The Red Devil!" He turned around and went into the hallway again. Stopped at the first closet. Opened it up and reached up onto the top shelf, where he kept a coil of rope. He used it to go down into the basement every now and then. There was a makeshift ladder down there, but it broke a lot, so he had the rope until he could get a new folding ladder built on. Walter slung it around his shoulder and slammed the door, not caring who might hear it (not that anyone would; he lived on the edge of town, far away from human ears).

_Human ears, that is, _he thought, and the thought chilled him. Who else might be listening right now? Who (or _what_) might be waiting for him in that tunnel? What if he got down in there, and some kind of thing ate him up as he went down the tunnel?

"Don't be stupid," Walter told himself. "You're acting like a child; there are no such things as monsters, or Gods, or Devils, or anything!" As he said this, he recalled pictures of Valtiel, the servant of God that Stone had preached about so often during Walter's long, agonizing stay at the Wish House. He shook his head violently to clear the image, like a child might shake his etch-a-sketch to clear the easel.

He once again stood before the hole, with the rope tied about his waist. With that taken care of, he tied the other end around the bold metal coathanger around the corner, in the hallway. That would be his pulley, in case he got stuck somewhere down there. After he had assured himself that he had an escape plan, he used the edges of the shattered desk to hoist himself up into the hole legs-first, and then he was in.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thirty feet were a doozy--it was a straight forward path, and he was crawling backwards--but then the tunnel began to arch downward, and pretty soon he was bending backwards to fit down the 70-degree angle that lead down. Then he was falling.

The coil of rope held for awhile, uncoiling around his waist at an amazing speed--he was falling fast, and technically his arms and legs should have been abraided by the rough edges of the tunnel, but they weren't--and then he saw it beneath him: a vast white void, crackling and fuzzing like an old TV set with a bad signal. It was like TV noise. And suddenly his head hurt. It hurt, and then it ached, and now it was pounding, _screaming, _he didn't think he would be able to stand it much longer--

Walter lost consciousness as he passed through the white mass.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he awoke, he was lying on his back in a strange place; a large stone ring, probably a hundred or more yards in circumference, with a pool of some suspicious red liquid in the center.

The rope, he saw, was still cinched tightly around his waist, but it had pulled tight, and when he tried to move, it squeezed his midsection painfully. Looking up, he saw a black hole into which the rope ascended...and seemed to simply vanish.

He reached down to undo the knot on his beltloop...when a blade flicked quickly out above him, missing his fingers by mere inches, and severed the rope. He yelped in surprise, and then swiveled his head around to view the weapon's holder.

"There," the man said, "I took care of that for you."

Walter stood in shock, his mouth wide opened. "But you...you can't be! You're--"

"I'm not," the man said, and put the knife back into his coat. It was long and tinged light blue, with a snapping fold at the neck. The collar was turned up. The bottom of the coat stopped at his waist, betraying the casual look of the khaki pants beneath it. "I am not truly dead, Walter, and you know it. You know it because I wasn't ever really alive. Not after I came here."

It was himself. It was Walter Sullivan, in the flesh.

"What do...what do you want?" Walter asked himself.

Walter Sullivan--the one who had killed those children, the ones Walter himself had known and even babysat, back in the day--laughed, and sat down indian-style, with his legs folded. "It's not about what _I _want, dear Walter. It's about what _God_ wants."

Walter snorted. "You fool! There is no God, and you know it. Stone lied to you, to get you to--"

"I know all about Stone," Walter--the murderer--said, and shook his head. "He used me. And I don't like being used. All that will come in due time, my friend, but for now we must palaver. On another matter."

"To what?"

"Palaver. It's an African word, dear Walter--don't you know that? You're the college student, after all. You'd think all that World History would have sunken in, at some point."

"How do you..."

"I know everything about you. I have access to endless tomes of knowledge, sai Walter. I know things that you could never begin to comprehend without going mad. Listen closely to me, for I have a message to give you."

"Let me guess," Walter #1 interrupted. "It has something to do with the number nineteen?"

"What?" Walter #2 said, raising an eyebrow. "Nineteen? No, you listen to me, now: There's work to be done, work that only you can do."

"Work?" Walter #1 asked doubtfully. "What do you mean? What kind of work?"

"There are forces in this world, Walter. Forces beyond your wildest imaginings. These forces have been in conflict since the beginning of time, and shall remain so until the end of time." Walter #2 reached into his coat pocket and produced a key. From the end of the key dangled a small doll-shaped object. It looked strangely familiar, and just seeing it made Walter #1's head hurt. "One of these forces...you might call God, although it has many names. Some call it The Lord of Serpents and Reeds, and some call it the Outsider, and others call it the Crimson King; others still call it Samael--although that last name is a bit of a stretch, even for Him."

"What do you--"

"I am no longer able to fulfil my duties, Walter. My _ka._ My destiny. I was removed from _ka_ when Henry unraveled my work and killed me."

"Ka? What is that?" Walter #1 asked.

"Ka...is nothing more than the will of a dying universe. Yet, even we must follow ka. Walter...do you not feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"It's tipping," Walter #2 said, ignoring him. "The Tower is tipping, and soon it will fall. Once that is done...once that is finished, they will be above ka. And then all things will end. It's even written in the song."

"What song?"  
"'Hometown,' by Joe Romersa," Walter #2 said. "It's a song in another world. In a world where this is all a game."

"What do you mean by--"

"That is not important," Walter #2 continued. He looked at his watch anxiously, and turned to Walter #1. "Our time is short. You must go to Henry, and warn him. There are those who seek him, and not all are good. Tell him to watch out for the Red."

"The Red?"

"There is no time. We must go now; the town is calling me."

"Wait!" Walter #1 rose to his feet, but could barely stand; his legs felt like twin towers made of jelly. "What do you want me to do...who's Henry?"

Walter #2 had no problems standing up and walking away. As he reached the center of the stone ring, a staircase materialized before him as though it had only been waiting for him all along, and the red liquid parted like water before Moses, and the Walter Sullivan who had murdered 18 people vanished into the depths of whatever strange place this was.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walter awoke in his bed the next morning, the ceiling fan spinning nonchalantly, sun streaming in through the window in bright ribbons. Unlike he had been upon waking from his other dreams, Walter was tranquil this morning. He had a strange sense of unfinished business, as though he had forgotten to turn in a lengthy assignment. And he also had a strange sense of leaning, like some great pillar somewhere was on its last legs. It was a strangely final sense, that feeling. Walter didn't like it.

Memory of his dream was already fading from Walter's mind; he only remembered that it had been very odd. He ate a bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast and took a cold shower--he'd been sweating a lot since the dreams started--and then he put on his coat, ready to start the day off on the right foot, mob outside his window or no mob. One peek out the front window told him the mob had decided to hold back for the morning.

Fumbling in his pocket, he felt an unfamiliar shape. He felt around for a second until he got a good grip on it, and then pulled it out.

It was a key.

A key with a tag on the end, in the shape of a doll.

Walter's blood ran cold as the memory of his dream came flooding back. He turned and ran upstairs into the living room, sure that the hole would be there again.

It wasn't.

Walter looked down at the key. Then he looked up at where the hole had been. "What the...hell?"

END OF CHAPTER 2


	3. Death of a Champion

**Chapter 3**

**Death of a Champion**

_"Now I understand_

_What you tried to say to me_

_How you suffered for your sanity_

_How you tried to set them free_

_They would not listen, they did not know how_

_Perhaps they'll listen now..."_

"Vincent," _Don McLean_

The night after he'd stayed in Eileen's room, Henry lay awake on his own couch in Room 302, watching the Tonight Show with a big plate of nachos coated with velveeta cheese in his lap. Jay's monologue hadn't impressed Henry, but then again, it never did. He was about to become bored with it and turn it off when the local news broke in and interrupted the program.

"Police in the town of Pleasant River, a town just a few hours' drive from our own Ashfield, are hot on the trail of the infamous 'Walter Sullivan Copy Cat Killer', who is suspected in the recent murder spree that has swept the streets of Ashfield. A young Pleasant River man's fingerprints were found on the bodies of the four victims, and police believe they have enough evidence to convict him on multiple charges of murder. The police caught the original mastermind behind the Sullivan case ten years ago, when the name carved into Sullivan's victim's bodies lead authorities to Sullivan's home in the town of Pleasant River. Sullivan killed himself in prison, after being convicted of the murders of Billy and Miriam Locane, but that apparently hasn't stopped several newcomers from trying to emulate Sullivan's strange and brutal behavior--"

Henry froze in his half-lying down, half-sitting position, his right ankle sliding down the front of the couch, a look of astonished disbelief on his face. No way...it couldn't be him! Not after all that trouble, no way in hell!

He grappled for the remote, which lay just on the edge of the coffee table. When he grasped it, it squirted through his dirty fingers and flew up into the air, landing abruptly on the carpet a few inches away.

"Son of a..." Henry shook it off and leaped over the coffee table, mashing the volume button on the TV up to seventy percent. "No way, no way in hell," he was chanting the entire time. "Can't be. Just can't..._be!_"

"...have any tips regarding the location of the man on your screen, please contact the Ashfield Police Department, the Pleasant River Police Department, or the Silent Hill Police Department at the following numbers..."

The screen displayed three lengthy phone numbers, which Henry neglected to record on the notepad next to his elbow on the coffee table; He was too shocked. Walter Sullivan, by God! _Walter Goddamn Sullivan!_ So it was true, then; Wally had come back for revenge...and this time, _nobody _was going to sto--

Oh, jeez...there he was going again, rambling off in his head. Walter Sullivan copycat, right...of course. The police had _just barely _had time to find the bodies of Braintree and the others...of course they wouldn't know that Sullivan was already dead. Henry breathed a great sigh of relief, and went back to the couch. Wide awake now, he turned the channel to the local news. They would be having updates on the Sullivan Copycat Round Two case every couple of hours until he was either caught or confirmed dead. A confirmed sighting of Sullivan would result in a lockdown of that location. They were going to have their man this time...or so they thought.

He muted the TV and went to the front of his bookshelf, the one on which he kept the radio. He skimmed the titles of the books on the shelf until he found what he wanted: _The Town With Ten Faces, _by Harold Morris. The front cover showed an abstract artwork depicting (Henry thought) a man wearing a leather jacket and weilding a steel pipe.

He flipped the first few pages until he came to the title page. The title was written in blocky gray letters, and just looking at them, Henry got the sense that they would be extremely rough if he reached out and touched them. He did so, and they were not hard at all--they were soft and silky, like the rest of the page. The whole book was in pretty good shape--he'd bought it fresh off the shelf from Books-A-Million, on his way to Silent Hill for the vacation a few years ago. He'd had to stop off in Augusta for gas, and on a whim he'd popped into the bookstore...and there, on the front podium, was a life-size cardboard artwork of the new book and the author. Henry had followed Harold's few but magnificent works over the last five years or so, all of which seemed to revolve around the strange history of Silent Hill. Henry was all about atmosphere, so he'd read it on the way to Silent Hill to set the mood for his arrival. By the time he'd arrived, he had been almost too absorbed in the book to go sightseeing.

The weird thing was, ol' Harry claimed that his stories were all true. Like the guys on that show "Unexplained Mysteries."

At the time, Henry had thought nothing of it (had dismissed him as having 'Unexplained Mysteries Syndrome', in fact)...but now, he was starting to wonder if maybe Harold _had _beentelling the whole truth. Had he experienced something like what Henry himself had? The descriptions of the environments were very similar to those seen in the worlds inside the portals...but not quite the same. Would it be a safe assumption that Harold had just invented the story, and by _sheer coincidence _guessed details so closely to those of the 'story' Henry had experienced?

Henry thought not. He thought there might be a thread of truth to Harold's story. It was possible, wasn't it? Walter _had _first struck around ten years ago, and that was _sort_ of close to the timeline presented in Harold's story...if you ignored the fact that it was about seven years off. Still...

"I know," Henry said, and flipped back to the "About the author" page at the end of the book.

_Harold Morris, 38, lives in Bangor, Maine, with his daughter, Heather, 13. Harold's wife passed away 17 years ago from a fatal illness, and Harold never remarried. He continues to live a happy life with his daughter, and is the author of other bestselling books such as AM I FRIENDS WITH PYRAMID HEAD? THE HISTORY OF SILENT HILL and THE BIRTH OF GOD, as well as six others. Learn about other works at _ it was decided; tomorrow, Henry would go to the local library and look up Harold's personal address on the internet. From there, he might be able to contact him via e-mail, and if Harold responded, maybe they could get together.

Yeah. That sounded good. It may not have been a deep or elaborate plan, but it sure as hell was better than sitting here and doing nothing all week, waiting to see if the Room would try to suck him in again. Not that he thought that could happen...exactly.

He dropped back onto the couch, still clutching the open book in one hand. Flipping back on to the Tonight Show, Henry started to read _The Town With Ten Faces _again.

Ten minutes later, he was fast asleep, the book sprawled open in his lap.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trip to the library the next day was not postponed; Henry remembered it as soon as he opened his eyes that morning at six o'clock, shutting of his alarm clock and dumping his book on the floor by accident as he did so. He'd set his alarm for six o'clock the night before because it had occured to him, as he was drifting off, that he hadn't had a shower since the beginning of the whole Walter Sullivan incident. So he showered, went to his closet, produced a pale, clean white shirt (that was pretty much all that was in his wardrobe: Six white shirts, one hawaiian shirt--his _lucky _hawaiian shirt, the one he'd worn to Silent Hill a few years ago--and four pairs of faded blue jeans. He was a pretty plain guy, when it came to clothing, and even though that sometimes rubbed off on his personality, it in no way said that he was _dull.)_

He made some hot cocoa (Swiss Miss brand; his favorite since he was six years old, mostly because it came with the little packets of marshmallows) and made a couple of scrambled eggs--the only thing he knew how to cook without starting a fire--and by the time that was all said and done (the eggs took him three tries), it was almost seven o'clock. He tossed on his gray sweater-overcoat and went next door to Eileen's.

_Whup-whup-whup!_

Muffled footsteps from the other side of the door. Then: "Coming, wait a second!" Then some more mumbled commentary.

The door opened, and Eileen appeared in a denim skirt and a blue blouse beneath a leather jacket. "Hold on a minute, Henry. I just got out of the shower, and I figured I'd get something to eat before we left--"

"Eileen," Henry broke in, faking a wolf-howl...and quite poorly. "Nice coat! I didn't know you were into leather."

"I'm not, really," Eileen confirmed. "I just saw it in a second-hand store a couple of months ago for like, sixteen bucks, and I couldn't resist. You know how expensive leather is, and seeing it cheap like that made me want to buy it, just in case I ever decided I needed something leather."

Henry, thinking back on his closet stuffed with white shirts and blue jeans, replied, "Yeah, I know what you mean." Then he considered what she had said about breakfast. "We can get something at IHOP. Come on, I'm anxious to get some dirt on this Morris guy!" He gently seized Eileen by the elbow and tugged her.

"Hold your horses," Eileen giggled, and rolled her eyes. She reached back around to the inside of the door and took off her purse. "I'm anxious, too, but I wouldn't get my hopes up too much. There are a _lot _of crackpots out there, and--"

"But Eileen," Henry broke in, "I have a good feeling about this. I'm almost sure that this Harry guy can help us out. He must know _something;_ Don't you think it's a pretty big coincidence that his stories are about _Silent Hill_? The same town where Walter was raised?"

Eileen shook her head slowly. "I do think it's likely, but...even so, don't get too hell-bent on finding something. You know you'll be disappointed if you get your hopes up really high and then don't find anything...or the guy turns up dead, or something. You know how authors and poets are; history shows that those guys have an uncanny knack for killing themselves."

"Not if they're _successful,"_ Henry concluded. "They only kill themselves when they turn forty, realize they aren't ever going to make a lot of money in the art department, and that they've wasted their whole life for nothing."

And that was all they spoke of Harold Morris until they reached the library.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The IHOP breakfast was good, but Henry couldn't even finish his first pancake--despite the fact that the only other thing in his stomach was half of a burned egg--his stomach was churning too badly. He needed to meet with this Harry guy. For the past few days, Henry had been getting the feeling that whatever had happened in that room wasn't over yet. Maybe it was the emotional aftershock--mistaking a pound of meat for a dead cat had been only one of several proofs of that--but that thought wasn't powerful enough to calm the hurricane in his stomach. After forking over $10.50 for their bill, Henry and Eileen moved on to the Ashfield Public Library.

"Hello," Henry said to the woman behind the counter. His speech was kind, but his voice was anxious; Alice, the on-duty librarian, could hear the nerves in his voice and see them in his face. "Do you have any copies of _Am I Friends With Pyramid Head? A History of Silent Hill_? It's by Harold Morris, and--"

But already Alice was shaking her head. "Sorry, sir. All of our Morris books are checked out. It seems that something in one of his books had something to do with the Walter Sullivan case, and now everyone's saying he _predicted _it. We've had sixteen checkouts of Mr. Morris just since this morning."

"But you guys didn't even open until seven!" Henry said, disheartened.

"Yeah, well, they were lined up outside the doors to get copies of those Morris books," Alice told him matter-of-factly. "I can reserve one for you upon its return, if you'd like."

"No," Henry sighed. "But thanks anyway. I'll just do my research on the net. I was going to go on anyway."

Alice gave him a computer pass and he took over the first computer he saw. Henry pulled up Google and entered the keywords "Harold Morris" and "Pyramid Head", respectively.

_12,001,223 matches found for _Harold Morris.

_1,022,213 matches found for _Pyramid Head.

He decided to search Harry's category first. The Pyramid Head pages didn't seem so promising; apparently, there was a heavy metal band called "Pyramid Head."

The first page he came to was a Harry Morris fansite. It was done by a teenager--Henry could tell because of the abundant uses of words like _far-fuckin'-out _and _oh holy jeezum shitbiscuit is Harry Morris awesome!!_

Henry read that page for two minutes before deciding it was futile and moving on to the next site.

This one was dedicated to the works of Harry Morris--_Harry Morris: A Lifetime of Terror. _It was chock-full of stories and interviews with the author himself, as well as an autograph up for sale. The price tag on that autograph--$12,000--made Henry's heart sink, for some reason. There was something ominous about such a high-priced autograph by such a young author. Harry must have been a _damn _good writer.

That page didn't have any current info on Harry, either--its last update had been almost a year ago. Henry moved on, hoping his find would be satisfactory.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eileen knitted herself in between the massive two-story bookshelves that lined the second floor of the library--the whole complex was one big room that towered three stories, with each floor linked by a pair of gold-plated staircases, and from the second floor, Eileen could see Henry frantically typing on the keyboard. She could see the Google logo, too, but then she decided that maybe she shouldn't be focusing as much on Henry as she should on finding something on Harry Morris.

Sure, they were supposed to be out of Morris' novels...but that didn't apply to biographies, did it? Eileen had asked a young man about a Morris bio, but he had just shrugged. So she would have to search each section book-by-book. That could take awhile.

She turned the corner...and came into an entirely new hall of bookshelves, concealed from the entrance by six or seven massive shelves. She looked up, suddenly very intimidated by the magnitude of her task.

"Better get started," she mumbled, and started looking.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Harold Morris, best horror author yet!_

_Harry Morris--the next Stephen King! (--Stephen King)_

_Harry Morris, the most insightful horror writer of the century! (--Time Magazine)_

_Harold Morris, Winner of the Prize for Contribution to the American Letter!_

_Rags to Riches--The Story Of A Young Author Who Came Out On Top..._

Henry went to site after site after site, but still he found no up-to-date information on Harry Morris. All of this stuff was at least six or seven months old. And there was nothing at all on--

Wait...

_The Great American Author's Society--Death of a Champion._

There was a short description below that:

_'Readers of the great American Fiction novel will rue this day for the rest of their lives, as they..._

What did that have to do with Harry Morris? Henry was suddenly very, very uncomfortable. But he held on to hope, as Morris' name was nowhere in the description...

He clicked on the link.

_Loading..._

_Loading..._

The site came up.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eileen dropped into a cushioned chair in the reading center of the second floor, exhuasted and cradling her right index finger. She'd been spine-flicking for almost twenty minutes, and her finger was sore. There was just no way they would be able to find a book on Harry Morris in this library, not today...no way at all--

But wait! What was this?

_Famous Author i--_

A newspaper was crammed in between the cushions of the small couch across from where Eileen was sitting, and the above words were just visible. Curious, she leaned forward and plucked the paper from in between the cushions, unfolding it and reading the entire front-page headline. It was today's paper...

Eileen gasped. No way...it had to be a coincidence. Just had to be.

But somehow she knew it wasn't.

". . . .Henry!" Eileen whined, jumping out of her chair and dashing down to the first floor.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry read the article, a look of bewildered, frightened disbelief dawning on his face.

It couldn't be. It just couldn't. Harry Morris was one of the youngest, healthiest, most popular, physically fit men in the country! How could this have happened?

_Famous Author Harry Morris, Found Dead In Own Living Room_

_...Harry Morris was found dead in his apartment yesterday morning by authorities in Portland, Maine. The cause of death was first assumed to be suicide, since all of the doors in the house were locked from the inside and there were no fingerprints found at the scene. Nor was there a murder weapon..._

_...Morris' daughter, Heather, claimed that her father was murdered by a 'monster'..._

_...is being detained at a nearby mental facility for temporary treatment..._

_...is a prime suspect in the murder of her father..._

_...police suspect that financial gain may have been a motive, since all Morris' possessions were willed to his daughter..._

_...Heather's prints were found all over the body, in and around the wound..._

_...case is being treated as a homicide..._

Henry couldn't believe what he was reading. Murdered? Harry Morris, murdered? How could this be? Henry had shaken the man's _hand_, for God's sake! Sure, that had been almost eight years ago, back when Henry was still in college (it had been at a book signing for one of Morris' first novels)...but still, to know that a man he had spoken to was _dead..._ of all people!

And they were saying his _daughter _did it!

"Jeezus," Henry said, and whistled, his eyes wide open. He blinked several times as he reread the article, not able to believe his eyes. It was true, then...Harry was dead, and his daughter of 17 years was a prime suspect. The article went on to say that one prosecutor had insinuated that sexual abuse may have motivated Heather, and the girl had kicked that state attorney in the crotch and screamed until she'd dropped to her knees in tears, screaming, "_Don't talk about my dad like that, ever! EVER! You hear me?! I'll KILL you if you ever say that again!" _And that was a quote.

"Henry!"

Henry jumped when Eileen grabbed his shoulder. "Jesus, Eileen!" He flipped around in his swivel-chair, meeting Eileen face-to-face. "You scared the life out of me! Listen, I've got some really bad news: Harry Morris is--"

"--dead," Eileen and Henry finished simultaneously. "How did you know?" They both asked each other.

"You first," Henry said.

"No, you," Eileen insisted.

"I found this article--" Henry turned back around and highlighted the important part, about Morris' daughter being the prime suspect. "What the hell is going on here, Eileen?"

"I don't know," Eileen said, and flashed the news headline at Henry: _Famous Author is Found Dead in Own House._ It went on to explain details similar to those expressed by the article Henry had found.

Henry sighed, unable to react. What was he supposed to think? First, there was this ominous feeling, and the discomfort and inability to readjust to Room 302. Now Harry was dead. Henry couldn't shake the dark feeling in his heart. Somehow, he knew...somehow, he was sure that Walter Sullivan was connected with this. He didn't know how they were connected, but he knew it: Walter was involved. Either that, or the cult behind him. Either way, _somebody _involved with the Order had murdered Harry Morris--of that Henry was sure. The way they described it was very similar to the way Cynthia and Jasper had been found: Dead, case treated as a homicide...and no clues at all, whatsoever. They had so few clues, Henry thought, that they had resorted to accusing Morris' own daughter of murder. _Murder!_ And on top of that, sexual assault! The nerve of those creeps...

And whoever had killed him? They would have had decent motivation, wouldn't they? After all, Harry _had _tried to communicate stories of his "real-life experiences" to the general public.

Somebody, somewhere up the ladder, may not have liked that idea. And so Harry Morris..._whack._

"Are you okay, Henry?" Eileen gripped his shoulder and massaged it a little. "You look really pale."

"Yeah," Henry said, but it was just a distant yeah-yeah-whatever reply. He was already on Heather's side of the case. He was even considering going to Portland to confer with the authorities as one of the survivors of the Sullivan Case. But, on second thought, that might not be a good idea...they might toss _him _in the slammer as well, on charges of conspiring with Heather. Henry knew the kind of 'cheap cop' that did that--when they couldn't find out who _really _did it, they just found someone to blame so it would go on their record...and the next time election for Sheriff came around, they'd have a nice, round, perfect record...

Henry shook his head in displeasure. He felt very bad for Heather...she'd probably come home from school one day to find her father dead, and then...to be accused of _murdering _him...

"God...damn," Henry sighed. "This...just isn't right.

"I smell a rat, Eileen."

(END OF CHAPTER 3)


	4. Walter Gets a Visit

**Chapter 4**

**Walter Gets A Visit**

_"Hey, this is David_

_I got a hat the size of Oklahoma_

_Puttin' on my boots_

_Goin' down to Walter's_

_Get me some bargains_

_Bring somethin' home for the missus_

_They'll give you a bag to put it in_

_This is David, signin' off_

_Bye! Bye!"_

_"_Walter's Theme", _REM _

_Dead Letter Office_

Walter Sullivan was screaming down Highway 80 between Pleasant River and Ashfield, hunched over behind the wheel of his 1986 DeSoto and staring intently at the road before him like a madman about to commit murder. The speedometer read 96, and as he passed the first speed limit sign, he read the number 55. A snatch from some song occured to him--_I Can't Drive 55--_and he immediately slowed down, not wanting to be arrested. The way the normal people around here behaved towards him was bad enough...Walter didn't need cops on his case, too. Especially not with all the evidence he knew they had stacked on him. Walter #2 hadn't told him that, yet he knew all the same. He didn't know how...but he knew.

He also knew that he had to go to Ashfield. _Today_. It wasn't just that he was no longer safe in Pleasant River, either...that was part of why he needed to go, but there was something else he intended to take care of in town. Part of it was the grocery list, which he had foolishly left on his kitchen table in his hurry to leave the house.

But the real reason was in his right coat pocket: The doll-shaped key given to him by the other Walter (_the _real _Walter?_ he thought, and quickly dismissed the idea, shaking his head). Even though it had been given to him in a dream, here it was, solid chrome. That alone was enough to convince him that there was something more to this. Something that he could not even begin to fathom. He had to get ahold of this Henry character.

Getting excited, he stepped on the accelerator again. He gassed it up to 90 once he was sure nobody was nearby, and he went that fast all the way to Ashfield, slowing only when he was passed by another car.

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A brown sedan with a California license plate screamed past Walter's car, missing it by only a few inches and almost flying off the road.

"Jackass!" The driver, a middle-aged man with a short gray clean-cut hairdo, shouted, gunning the brake for a second until the car jerked back on course. "You're gonna kill someone, driving like that..." He adjusted his small brown hat, a little foldable thing that was so fragile it seemed to be made out of paper. It sat on his head like the little paper Good Burger hats he sometimes saw in the local restaurants.

Local. Bah! That was a laugh. As far as he was concerned, there _was _no local. Ever since that day ten years ago, he had made the decision to begin this lifestyle, the life of the hunter. After hearing about his exceptional reputation, the Ashfield PD had hired him to help with the Walter Sullivan case, and right now he was on his way to arrest the psycho in his Pleasant River home. The APD had finally gotten the evidence they needed to convict him: a fiber from the coat worn by the murderer, stained with blood, along with fingerprint evidence and an array of murder weapons, among them a scythe and blood-matted chainsaw. They were going to put this guy away for _life_, and that was a certainty. Not even Sullivan would be able to squeeze out of this pickle.

But even that couldn't distract him from the Morris case. He had worked that, too, and it had disturbed him. Mostly because he knew that the girl wasn't guilty. He should know; he'd been there.

Douglas Cartland pressed up to 70 and headed for the empty Sullivan household in Pleasant River, less than 20 miles away.

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Walter reached the Ashfield City Limits about 30 minutes after unknowingly passing Douglas on the highway. He had slowed to 20--the limit here was 35--as he went down South Ashfield Street and hung left into a convenient store, Cennex.

"Cennex," Walter mused aloud. "Sounds like the name of a dirty movie channel." He voiced a little chuckle and shut the driver's side door behind him, and went inside, humming a familiar tune in his head.

_We were at the beach,_ Walter sang in his head as the electric motion-sensor doors parted. _Everybody had matching towels._ He remembered that song; what the hell was it called? He thought he could remember the beginning of the guitar riffs, but he wasn't sure; he hadn't played guitar since his high-school days, and that had been awhile back--fifteen years, at least.

_Somebody went under a dock...and there they saw a rock. ...It wasn't a rock. It was a Rock--Lobster!_

"That's it!" Walter exclaimed in a half-whisper that came out like a hiss, slamming the door to the drink-cooler on the back wall of the store. In his hand was a bottle of Fruit Punch Gatorade. He loved the stuff, but he was pretty sure he'd heard somewhere that it was hell on your teeth.

"It's Rock Lobster," he added, brushing past an older man in the candy aisle. Walter plucked a Hershey Cookies-and-Cream candy bar from the box on the middle shelf, marked _c58_, and approached the counter.

A young black woman was behind the counter. Her nametag read _Sheila._ Walter placed his purchase on the counter, and reached into his coat to get his wallet.

'Sheila' looked up at him. "Is that a--" She froze. A thoughtful look crossed her face. _Where've I seen him?_ She thought, and shrugged. Pushing the thought into the back of her mind but not forgetting it--or the insecurity it bred--she rang up Walter's order.

"Can you break a twenty?" Walter asked, removing the bill from his little brown leather _Star Point _wallet.

"Sure," Sheila assured him, and proceeded to work the cash register. The total came up in green digits on the display facing Walter: $2.67.

"I hate to break such a big bill on such a dinky buy," Walter said conversationally, "but it's all I've got on me 'till I get to the ATM." He took his change and made it disappear.

"There's one out to the side, out front," Sheila told him, and pointed. "Just around the corner. It's on the east side, you can't miss it."

"Oh, really?" Walter replied, semi-interested. "Thanks. I wouldn't normally bother, what with the withdrawal fees and all, but my Debit card never reads at Wal-Mart. So I gotta use cash."  
"Know what you mean," Sheila said, grinning, and went back to work. There was an older white man in line, with a tall one in one hand and a miniature tub of cookie-dough ice cream in the other.

"Oh, by the way," Walter added. "Do you know a guy named Henry?"

"Henry?" Sheila cocked her head uncertainly. "Does he have a last name, by any chance?"

Walter laughed. "Yeah, but I'm not sure what it is. He usually has on a white button-up--" he mimed buttoning up a shirt with both hands. "--and a pair of jeans. He hangs out with a chick named Eileen. You know him?"

Sheila considered, then nodded slowly. "Yeah...that actually does sound kinda familiar. There's a white-shirt-guy that comes in here from time to time. Usually on Fridays. He gets a beer and a bunch of candy bars, and that's usually it. Why, is it important?"

"I have a feeling it's very much that," Walter said shortly, without meaning to.

"Well, I'm not sure where he is, but you could always try the phone directory. There's one in the phone booth out front."

"Thanks," Walter said, and turned around.

"Ah-hem," the guy behind him 'said.' He looked impatient.

_Pothead,_ Walter jeered at him from within the safety of his own skull, eyeing the tub of ice cream in the guy's hand, and grinned. He left the store and poked around to the side--sure enough, here was a phone booth. He stepped inside and opened the directory to page 19, reading the first name on the list...somehow, even though he hadn't known Henry's last name, Walter knew this was the right number--_Townshend, Henry, 1219 South Ashfield Street, South Ashfield Heights Apartments, Room 302. _That was all he needed to know; he shut the book and stepped outside without thinking twice; he was _sure._

An ATM was close to the phone booth, on the east side...just like Sheila had said. He approached it, used the security mirror to make sure nobody was watching, and punched in his PIN number. He entered some numbers on the machine, and it spit out a wad of 20 $20 bills. This was all of Walter's money, at least in this account. He had almost $10,000 spread out in 14 accounts across the state, in the event of identity theft or some other devastating change. He knew it was probably a wasted effort, but that didn't stop him from doing it to satisfy his own quirk.

Thinking nothing of his encounter here, Walter climbed back into his DeSoto and pulled out of the parking lot, headed for South Ashfield Heights, where he hoped to meet the person he had come to think of, in a sarcastic way, as "the man of his dreams".

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Sheila was in the back of the store, munching on a bag of Lay's Sour Cream and Onion potato chips and holding a bowl of bean dip. The TV was on, and the door to the front of the store was open, so she could hear the bell that would signal the approach of a customer. Right now, Cronan O'Reily was reading the local news, and the next item was this:

"Also, in a related story, police have issued a warrant for the arrest of 38-year-old college student Walter Romero Sullivan this morning. He is wanted in connection with the murders of four Ashfield residents, and possibly four other murders. The culprit of this case may have had a hand in the previous Walter Sullivan Copycat murder case ten years ago (the perpetrator of which was, ironically, a man with the same name as Sullivan), but Ashfield Police are keeping details under wraps until Sullivan is in custody." At this point in the program, Cronan cleared his throat and tapped his papers on the desk, then motioned to Zack Weisenberg, the black co-host of _Pox Ten News. _"Zack?"

Zack grinned, but there was no humor in it. He was grinning because the thought of that crazy bastard, the one who had killed his sister-in-law's children, behind bars for life (even though that would never be enough compensation for the deaths of the Locane Twins) had just crossed his mind. The grin was gone almost as quickly as it had surfaced. "Thanks, Cronan," he said, and read his report.

"As you know, we have been airing continual coverage of the Sullivan Copycat case, and we plan to continue airing until Sullivan is behind bars. You can help put him there by calling the number on your screen--"

A hotline appeared across the bottom of the screen, in shimmering white letters.

"--if you see him or know anything of his whereabouts. A $1,000 reward is being offered by the APD for information leading to the capture of this dangerous criminal. We are also asked to warn you that this man is _armed and dangerous. Do not _approach him under any circumstances; if you sight him, call 911 or the APD, and give us the story by calling the number on your screen."

A picture of Walter was displayed on the screen. Sheila gasped in horror. It was an _older picture, _of course! _That _was why she hadn't recognized him from that earlier report; he was so much older in person! The picture on the screen was dated almost ten years ago, but it was still a pretty convincing mugshot; That had been the guy, alright. Walter Sullivan--_Walter fucking Sullivan--_had just bought a candy bar and a drink...from _her!_ Ooh, she couldn't wait to call in and report this. Not only would she no longer have to worry about Sullivan roaming the streets of Ashfield, but she also had a nice plan in mind for that $1,000 reward. That was more green than her front lawn after one of her bimonthly LSD trips!

Sheila ran to the phone and jerked it off the cradle, dialing 911. She reported the sighting and told the operator in which direction Sullivan had left, and the operator told her they would have an officer at the scene immediately. She hung up. They would probably have more than one officer at the scene; this guy Walter had killed, like, 20-something people in the last decade or so, and he'd gotten away from the police at every twist and turn. It was like he _wanted _them to follow the clues he left at every scene, like it was all part of some great game.

None of things occured to her consciously, but they drifted just beneath in her subconscious as she dialed the number for Pox Ten News. Upon confirmation by police report, they wanted to buy the story from her for $500 dollars. They would also pay for an interview, the price of which would be negotiated later. Sheila agreed and hung up, shrieking with delight and running back to the front of the store.

There were three cop cars and six officers in the front parking lot twenty minutes later, and four more cruisers in hot pursuit of Walter (who was a mere ten miles from the store by then) five minutes after that.

Walter sat behind the wheel of his own car, coasting along at a steady 25, humming _Rock Lobster _in his head. He wished he still had the CD that song was on. Who was it that had sung it again?

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Walter pulled into the parking lot of South Ashfield Heights, parking in Henry's space without knowing it. He got out and went inside.

From reading the chart on the wall in the lobby, Walter determined that the Super's room was #105. He entered the left hall and knocked on the door four times.

After almost a full minute, Walter heard an old man's voice: "I'm coming, I'm coming..." Then the door creaked slowly open...and Frank Sunderland gasped, whether in horror or astonishment or both he didn't know.

"It's...you," was all he could manage. On a better day, when his reflexes were quicker, Frank would have immediately slammed the door shut in Walter's face. But not today; somehow, he felt compelled to speak to him. After all, it must be a coincidence, right? Walter was dead; they'd found his body in that prison cell...this was just a guy who happened to dress just like him. Could be a million of him. So Frank sucked up his courage and asked, "Ca, can I help you?"

"Yeah," Walter said, uncertain. "I'm looking for an, ah..." he glanced nervously around. "Henry? I think his last name is Townshend. I have some really important--"

"No," Frank said, and narrowed his eyes in concentration. "He's out. Went to the library with that girlfriend of his...Eileen, was it? The one from 303. Look, I can give him a message if you--"

"No, it's fine," Walter said. "Thanks, but it's kind of personal." He stopped, thought. "No. _Really _personal. I need to tell him myself. So I can reach him at the library, you said?"

"Maybe," Frank confirmed. "He might still be there; he only left about an hour or two ago. Are you _sure _I can't at least tell him you--"

"No," Walter said curtly, and that was the end of that. He exited the hall promptly, leaving Frank in a state of mixed wonder and approaching dismay.

"It _was _him," Frank insisted to nobody in particular. "Him, or a damn good copycat."

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Officer Herring sped down South Ashfield Street at 70 miles an hour, sirens blaring. His intent was to catch Walter Sullivan, and he almost did.

"Unit 14, Unit 14, this is base, copy?" came, in a thick northern accent, from the microphone on his dashboard.

"Copy," Herring said haggardly into the mike. "This is 14."

"14, we got a report that Sullivan's headed west on North, copy? That's west on North Ashfield Street."

"Copy," Herring said again. "Sullivan headed west on North. Is he on foot?"

"Nope," base returned. "We got a make and model. Neon purple 1986 DeSoto."

"Repeat?" Herring said. He'd heard it; he just wanted to make sure he'd heard _right_. Neon purple? Who drove a neon purple car? Had they even _made _a neon purple DeSoto? Must have been a custom job. Herring wouldn't put that paint job past Sullivan--the guy was reputed to be pretty crazy, after all.

"Repeat, Sullivan is travelling by car. Make and model, 1986 DeSoto, neon purple. Copy?"

"I copy," Herring said, irritated. "I'm going to catch that bastard red-handed this time, Shirl."

"Don't go in there alone, Herring," Shirley said from the base. "This guy's armed and dangerous, and he doesn't have a beef with killing cops. You should wait until 19 gets there."

"I'm not crazy," Herring shot back. "I know what I'm doing, Shirl. Don't worry."

"Just be careful," Shirley said. "Try to lay low if you can."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," Herring said, and gunned the motor.

Just then, a semi pulled around the corner and rode up behind him. He glanced into his rearview mirror at it quickly, then returned to the task at hand. "Walter Sullivan, you're going down this time. This one...this one's for Andy."

Herring sped up to 90, sirens going at full blast.

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Walter went down North, stopping at the crossroads to turn off on Arrold Street. From there he went straight for two miles, then pulled off into the Wal-Mart parking lot. He was going to go shopping today, whether or not he felt like it; his fridge was as empty as his stomach. He had eaten the cookies 'n cream bar he'd bought back at the c-store in less than a minute, and it had done nothing towards abating his hunger--it served only to further awaken it. Now he really had a craving for chicken, for some reason. And not just any chicken. It had to be _Wal-Mart deli _chicken.

After he parked, Walter got out and started towards the door. Rock Lobster had ceased, and now _Walter's Theme, _the song that had originally inspired him to listen to REM (he'd taken the name as a sign), raced through his mind for the third time that morning.

Still humming, Walter went through the sliding electronic doors.

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Herring pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot, did a 90-degree loop as he slammed on his brakes, and narrowly avoided hitting a pedestrian woman with his rear bumper. His car screeched to a halt in front of the sliding double-doors that Walter had gone in through less than a minute ago. Already as Herring drew his service pistol and raced inside after Walter, an audience was drawing.

And the show hadn't even begun yet.

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Walter took his chicken from the deli worker and smiled. "Thanks," he said, and started back down the aisle. He would have eaten the stuff right there, if not for his obsession with having to actually _pay for_ things before he opened them--if he didn't, he might forget to pay at all.

The deli was in the back of the store, so Walter had had to go past several long aisles to get there. As he passed the food aisles, he didn't notice that he was receiving several strange looks from the people that would soon be his audience.

Walter's head was twitching, ever so slightly, in two directions every few seconds. A person who had never seen him before might have thought that he was a minor epileptic. He didn't seem to notice anything in relation to this.

As he approached the front register--register 19, the one with the cigarettes--he was filled with a slight but all-too-_there_ sense of vertigo. It made him feel rather sick to his stomach. Probably just nerves.

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Herring raced through the aisles, eyeing the customers from the corners of his eyes with discrimination. He could have picked Sullivan out of a lineup easily after what he had done to Andy.

Andy Bates had been Herring's partner 3 years ago, and they had investigated the second Sullivan murder case together. On a particular night, they had actually caught up with the man himself shortly after discovering one of his latest (at the time) victims--Toby Archiboldt, from Silent Hill. Andy had seen the man perched up on the edge of the highway from the edge of the woods where they had been searching, and had gone up after him with his pistol in hand.

Herring had called after him, drawing his own gun and following. They had caught up to Sullivan, but it had not gone the way they had expected; not at all. He had been waiting for them, and Herring didn't know how, but Walter had set up a trap just for them--like he _knew _they were going to be there, even before they were.

It had been like he was _waiting _for them to find him.

They had followed him to an old house in the middle of the woods, where he had retreated into the second floor dorms. There had been fences all around the house, giving it the air of a place that people were not supposed to get away from...like a prison.

Andy had gone in first, insisting that he would catch Sullivan. He had been fascinated and angered by the Sullivan case--he had been a good friend of Eric Walsh, Sullivan's tenth victim, because Eric had been the bartender at Bar Southfield, where Andy always went to drink on Saturdays--so he held something against Walter that was almost (but not quite) personal.

There had been a door at the top of the stairs. The door to the dorms. Andy hadn't seen the string. He'd opened the door...and Herring had screamed for him to stop, to pull back before it was too late--

And then they had gone off. The shotguns had been strapped to the ceiling just above the door on the other side. Sullivan had strung up the trap beforehand, knowing that they (or _someone, _at least) would have come after them. The string across the jamb just above the floor had been tied through the trigger-handles of each of the weapons, so when Andy had tripped the string with his ankle...

All five triggers had gone off at the same time, spraying Andy from above with 90 tiny metal fragments. Andy was reduced to bloody swiss cheese in just under a second.

Herring hadn't had time to even scream Andy's name in surprise and anguish before his partner hit the ground. He'd done what he could, but Andy was dead before he even realized what had happened.

That night, Herring had sworn that he would get back at Sullivan. When the most recent Sullivan case had been opened, the other guys at the station had said that the new murderer was probably not the same guy. Herring was not so sure of that, not anymore. Now he thought there was more to it. Maybe the guy they had caught and imprisoned hadn't been the real deal? Herring thought that was likely; perhaps Sullivan got another guy to take his place. Whatever the case, the guy they had captured hadn't seemed to show the same sick glee that the Walter they had met in the woods did; _that_ guy had been smiling the whole time.

It had been just like he'd _known _he would get away.

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Walter payed for the chicken and bought a pack of Swisher Sweets for himself. He wasn't a regular smoker, but every now and then he would have a pack, usually when he felt like he had accomplished something. It was a way of keeping himself from becoming addicted, he supposed...but he figured that something about his metabolism was more responsible for the lack of addiction than any habits he might have. He took the cigarettes and started down the front of the store, towards the front door.

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Unfortunately for Herring, a young man named Jackson had chosen this particular moment to rob cash register number 19. Herring came out of the clothing section just in time to see Walter come out of the aisle. He aimed his service revolver--a shiny new .38, just issued last week--at Walter. "_Stop!_" He shouted at the top of his lungs. His deep voice projected all the way across the room, reaching Jackson's ears just before it reached Walter's.

Jackson saw the gun pointed in his direction, and immediately thought that the cop was after him. Why wouldn't he be? Jackson had a gun inside of his jacket, and he currently had it pointed at the man behind the register. Had the cop seen him on one of the cameras? It didn't matter; Jackson turned and fired three shots in Herring's direction. The first two sailed past the officer's bare skull, but the third one clipped him in the right shoulder.

Herring cried out and dropped his arm to his side, but still he held on to the gun. He saw Jackson running towards him all of a sudden, and aimed at the newcomer.

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Walter heard "_Stop!_" from behind and whirled to see the action. Just before Jackson fired the shots, Walter saw Herring and locked eyes with him.

This man, Walter knew, meant to kill him.

Walter turned and ran. He smashed into a shopping cart being pushed by an old woman and went head-over-heels, smashing into the floor face-first. The bag with his cigarettes inside flew from his hand and skidded across the newly polished linoleum. Walter ignored it and quickly reached his feet, making a full-blown dash for the front door.

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Herring took shelter behind a nearby stack of Little Debbie snack cakes. It wasn't much shelter--two more bullets punched holes in the rack, missing Herring by inches, just after he ducked behind it--but it would interfere with the crook's aim, and that would buy Herring enough time to fight back. He fumbled on his belt for his radio.

"14, this is 14, base! Do you copy? This is 14, goddamnit! I'm under fire!"

Crackles from the radio. "14, Unit 14, this is base. Copy, you are under fire?"  
"Wal-Mart on Arrold Street, off of North! Suspect is young white male, carrying a large pistol. Shots fired--"

A bullet punched through the stack of cakes, nicking Herring in the right hip. He cried out.

"Unit 14! 14, are you okay? I'm directing all nearby units to your location!"

"Damn it, Shirl! Hurry!" Herring leaned around the stack and shot twice. Both missed. "I was hot on Sullivan's heels, but there's a robbery in progress! I've been intercepted by an unknown suspect--"

"Walter?" Shirley said in disbelief. "You had Walter?"

"Damn it, Shirley, re-route those units! _Sullivan's getting away! He's getting the fuck away! Move your ass!"_

"Right away!" Shirley clicked off.

Herring's well-maintained aim was probably what saved his life that day; he was undoubtedly the best shot on the force, and he put in two hours of practice a night, despite the fact that he had never even drawn his gun except for twice--once 3 years ago, and once right now. Just as Walter was dashing through the sliding-glass electronic doors, Herring leaned around the cakes again and returned fire to the thug. Three quick shots. The first one clipped Jackson's left ear, and he shouted with rage and pain. The second missed, but the third hit the crook's pistol and knocked it out of his hand. There was another loud bellow, but there was no rage in that--it was all pain. Jackson went to his knees.

Herring stumbled forward, reaching for his handcuffs. Jackson saw this and prepared to make a move to escape. He made it to his feet in a second and turned to dash for the doors, in the same direction as Sullivan. He probably would have made it--his gun was almost empty, so he wouldn't be able to knock him down from a long distance without pure luck--except that a large, brawny man tackled him from behind just before he cleared the register, grabbing his knees and flooring him in a second.

"Lights out," the man said, and punched Jackson in the face. Jackson went out _just_ like a light, and that was probably good; this newcomer would likely have continued to beat him if he had remained conscious. The bastard deserved it, for putting this man's daughter in danger by shooting whilst she stood in the line of fire, holding a shopping cart.

Herring abruptly pushed the man off of Jackson and slapped a pair of cuffs on his wrists. "Thanks," Herring said breathlessly, and cuffed Jackson. He turned to the man who had caught the criminal. "I have to catch that man in the coat. Another officer should be here any minute; can I trust you to make sure this man is taken in?"

"Sure," the brawny man said. "I used to be a cop. I know how it's done." And with that, he sat down on the man in cuffs.

Herring smiled--a rare occasion--and then took off after Walter.

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Walter was already starting his car when Herring reached the sliding-glass doors of Wal-Mart, and by the time Herring had opened the door of his cruiser, Walter was out of the parking lot and halfway down Arrold Street. He turned off onto North Ashfield Street and floored it.

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Herring slammed the door of his cruiser, planning to chase Walter to the end of the earth...but just as he slammed his foot down on the pedal, a bolt of pain shot up his leg and he screamed.

"_Damn _it!" He pounded the dashboard. His forehead shimmered with sweat. His pants and the cloth under his belt had begun to turn a dark red. He was bleeding, but not too bad. He could wait to tend to the wound. It was his goddamned _hip_ that was going to screw him over this day.

Herring grabbed the dashboard radio. "14, this is 14, base! Suspect Walter Sullivan is headed east on North! Repeat, east on North Ashfield! Suspect is--"

"Hear you loud and clear, 14!" Shirley's voice said into the mike. Herring could hear triumph hiding behind her words. "I've got six units on his tail. Herring, looks like we're finally going to have our man today!"  
Herring sighed, wanting to smile at the thought but not obliging himself. "God, I hope so..."

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Walter would have made it out of Ashfield that day, if not for one little thing.

When he reached the end of North, he turned right and onto Bullard Boulevard. From there he sped at 96 until he reached the next turn. From there he saw three cruisers coming at him from the right. He turned left and floored it, running against traffic for a few seconds until he got in the far right lane. He had a grin of exhiliration on his face--this was exciting, even if it _was _probably going to end in his own imprisonment--and when he looked in his rearview mirror, that exhiliration doubled. They really _did _think he was the same guy as before! What a laugh. Walter had never killed anybody. But still...they wouldn't believe that. He could imagine what those crooked cops might do to him if they caught him...and that drove him to speed up to 100, the fastest his car would go.

And that was when he ruined his chance to escape.

Up ahead was a police barricade, or at least the beginning of one. There were ten cars lined up at the four-way intersection, and a whole load of other vehicles stalling at the edges of the road. Had he driven straight ahead, Walter would have clipped the rearview mirror off of one of the cruisers and narrowly squeezed through the barricade...but instead, he opted to veer right.

What he couldn't see was that another car was screaming around that corner at 45 miles an hour. Walter's car slammed into the passenger door of the cruiser, and it actually pushed the car forward for a few seconds before momentum caused it to slow and eventually stop. Walter, panicking, tried to turn the wheel, but two more cruisers came from the south street and blocked that exit. He reversed, knowing that it was all too late but not wanting to give up yet because he was a _fighter_...and bumped into the front of another cruiser.

As a last resort, Walter kicked the driver's-side door of his own car open and rolled out, climbing to his feet and dashing for the corner of the street. He reached into his pocket as he did--what he was about to experience would prompt him to think later that doing so had not been a good idea--and one of the officers thought he was reaching for a weapon, so he fired. The bullet caught Walter in the shin, just above the ankle, and he went down. Twenty men were on him in ten seconds, and just like that, it was over.

They had caught him.

END OF CHAPTER 4


	5. What's the Story, Walter?

**Chapter 5**

**What's the Story, Walter?**

_"I'm feeling thankful for the small things today_

_I'm feeling thankful for the small things today..."_

_"_Happy Birthday To Me", _Cracker_

_(Album: Cracker)_

"I'm telling you, I'm not the guy!"  
Walter had been in this little white room for almost six hours. It was a small room, with not very much furniture...unless you considerd a single white chair and a single gray table to be a particularly abundant suit. The guys had caught him on the run, and now they were trying to round off their ridiculously sturdy case against him with a confession. Maybe they figured he would crack if they continued to badger him.

"You _didn't do it,_" one of the men in the gray suits said. His tone spoke of mockery. "Yeah, I believe that."

The second man, this one bald with dark glasses, turned to the first. "Yeah, but...don't you believe in Santa Claus?"

"Damn straight I do," the first replied. "I also believe in the tooth fairy, and the Easter Bunny, and Superman." After a short hesitation, he slammed the sweaty palms of his hands down on the table with a sticky smack. "Dammit, why don't you just confess?! Make it easier for all of us?! How'd you do it, Sully? Who was the fall guy?!"

Walter looked the (agent? officer?) right in the face, and what the man in the gray suit saw there made him nervous. "I didn't do it," Walter said calmly, and would say no more.

"We've got your prints," the second officer said. "We've got your blood, ammo from guns with _your _prints on them, witnesses that are willing to testify to seeing _you _leaving the scene of each crime with said weapons in _your _hands, and you're going to tell us that '_you didn't do it?'"_

"That's exactly what I'm going to do," Walter said. "I didn't do anything, and you all know it. You already caught the guy. He's dead. I don't know why you're bothering me."

"Oh, you know damn well," a third man said, and put out the cigarette he had been working on. "You've heard it at least ten times since we took you in. Now we can do this the easy way--you give us a confession, we give you an abridged sentence--or we can do it the hard way, take it through the courts...and you can spend the rest of your life wishing you'd done it the easy way." He sat on the table and leaned as close to eye level with Sullivan as his six feet and seven inches would allow. "Just take the deal, man. No lawyer will take your case, not after what you've done. You're only going to dig yourself a deeper hole. At least if you take the deal, you have a _chance _at a life after your sentence clears." He paused, then stood up again. "Maybe by then, you'll have worked out some of your fucked-up issues."

Walter resisted the urge to crack a smile. Did they think he would break this easily? That guy was obviously the 'good cop.' Judging by their attitudes alone, it was hard to decipher which of the other three was the 'bad cop.' They all seemed pretty ill-mannered to Sullivan, especially after the way they had manhandled him into the interrogation room. But they weren't going to beat anything out of Walter Sullivan, not as long as he drew breath. He would never be so humbled by the legal system, especially for something he hadn't done.

"No," he said coldly.

"Fucking _horse_shit," the 'good cop' said, and pounded his fist on the table. "You just won't see reason, will you, you psycho?! You're cornered, don't you see that? You're _fucked!_"

Walter couldn't hold back his smile this time. "You're calling _me _a psycho, and you're the one who can't keep shit from spilling out of your mouth?"

The man in the suit didn't think twice about punching Walter. He hit him just below the jaw. "This ain't about what comes outta _my _mouth," he said, and cracked his knuckles. "This is about what you did, and why you won't 'fess up. You're going to lose your case if you go through with this. What's your deal? What do you want?"

Walter wiped his chin, which had begun to bleed a little bit. "I want you to let me go, of course." He had no idea why he felt so calm, especially considering that this was the _rest of his life _they were talking about, here. "I didn't do anything. I don't think a few sets of 10-year old fingerprints are enough to nail me. And the new ones? If they match the old ones...how do you have anything on me? They fingerprinted the guy they caught 10 years ago, and there was a one-hundred-percent match. That guy's as dead as dirt, and you all know it. That alone is enough to destroy your fingerprint evidence."

"No," the first man who had spoken said irritably. "The new prints we found were on the _new _bodies. How do you explain _that,_ if the other guy's been dead for 10 years?"

Walter smiled, but only on the inside. Outside, his face remained stone-cold. He was enjoying this, he realized. It was like there was some kind of force guiding his every word, seeming almost to _play _with these suited fools. "Do those prints match the original sets, from the first ten victims?"

The first man in the suit started to nod, and then stopped. "That don't mean nothing, pal. _Your _prints were on those weapons, and on those bodies. We have witnesses--"

"What witnesses?!" Walter broke in, trying to sound like an indignant but law-abiding citizen who had been accused of wrongdoing (which he was, but they didn't know that, or else none of them would be here). "Who do you have that will testify against me?"

"That's not important now," the man responded. Nevertheless, he appeared shaken.

"That's what I thought," Walter said. "You've got nobody."

"You'd best stop worrying about what we do and don't have, and start worrying about getting out of the jam you're in, Sully," the second man said. "All you need to know is, we've got enough to nail you for as many life sentences as we need to keep you behind bars forever. Which is where you _belong._"

Walter shook his head. "But according to all I've heard, I'm not in any sort of jam. You said yourself that the prints on the new victims match those of the prints on the old victims. If the prints on the old victims were matched with the guy that killed himself in prison, and the new prints are the same as the old ones, then by the reflexive property they must belong to the same man, right?" He paused for a breath. "So what if they match to mine? You've already stated that those prints belong to the original crook. Are you honestly going to present in your case that both myself _and _this 'original perpetrator' had the _exact same _fingerprints? How are you going to explain the odds of that?"

He received distracted looks from all four of them.

"That seems awfully unlikely to me," Walter continued, grinning devilishly. If not for that grin, the 'good cop' would likely have given up right there, out of sheer intimidation. But that grin suggested that there was definitely another motive behind Sullivan's argument, more than just a simple plothole in their case.

"Unlikely it may be," the first man said, "but not impossible."

"Just get this over with," Walter spat. "If you're going to jail me, just do it already. If not, let's wrap this up so I can get back to my--"  
Walter was seized by the collar of his blue coat. He jerked and struggled, but the other three men grabbed his arms and shoulders for support. He kicked and fought the entire way, but they eventually got him into a cell for the night. They would decide what to do about him later...but there was no way in hell they were letting this guy get away this time.

It had taken ten years just to find him the _first_ time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walter stirred in his cell, thinking and pacing. All the while, his right hand was clasped around the doll-shaped key given to him by the other Walter. It made his head hurt to touch it, but at the same time he felt a sort of dark ecstasy--like he was immortal, like he was the king--just from being near it.

_Watch and wait,_ Walter #2 had told him. _Watch and wait, and you will see._ This had come to Walter during his conversation with the four FBI guys in the white room; he had heard the voice in his head, and it had told him to get ready to make his move.

Clasping the key tightly, Walter had responded, _Is that you, Walter?_

The voice had ignored him. _Let them take you in. Fight them. Don't let them know you are confident. Make them think they have started to break you. That will make them confident, and that confidence will lead them to Temptation. That is when you will strike._

_Are you sure it will work? _Walter had responded, knowing it was a stupid question.

_It will work, _Walter #2's voice had reassured him. Although the voice didn't sound like it gave half a damn if Walter believed it would work. It was the voice of an employer trying not to get angry at a mentally retarded underling. _Just watch and wait._

So Walter waited. And he watched.

But still, the questions would not stop occuring to him: How would he get to this Henry fellow, if he was locked up in prison? Henry would most likely not come to him directly, seeing as how they had never met before in life...

...unless Walter #2 had somehow drawn _him _here, as well. But Walter found that to be unlikely. If it were that easy, Walter #2 would have drawn Henry to Walter #1's house instead of forcing Walter to walk into a trap set by the APD.

And how would he keep Henry from going to Silent Hill? Obviously the guy had plans to do just that, or else none of this would even have been necessary. So how would he do that, if he was stuck here?

His thoughts ultimately all lead back to the other Walter's words: _Watch and wait._

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A man in a long beige-colored trenchcoat stood in the office marked _D.A., _smoking a cigarette and listening to the report of one of the four men who had spoken to Walter. The man in the trenchcoat seemed oddly patient; a rugged gray beard outlined his face, giving it a strangely squarish look. He leaned against a bookshelf on one wall, listening intently without even looking at the man who was talking.

"He won't talk," the man in the suit said. "We've tried everything. Randy even gave him a good punch. All it did was piss him off." He shuffled his feet. "I don't know what else to do, D-man." D-man was what the guys around the station called him. D-man never gave a sign of whether or not he liked the nickname. Apparently, he didn't care what people called him, as long as they respected him.

"You really think beating him up is going to make him talk?" The man in the coat said. "There's a reason people say things like 'you'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar,' you know." He tapped the cigarette, dropping ashes into the tray on the edge of the cluttered desk. One single ash drifted to the floor, unnoticed by either man in the room. "Besides, you guys have no right to be hitting suspects. Until after the trial, that's all they are: _suspects. _You don't even know for sure that this is the right guy, do you?"

The man in the suit shrugged. "We printed him. It's the guy, alright. Either that, or someone who stole his exact fingerprints--"

"About that," the beige-coated man interrupted. "I read the report...and apparently, you guys are trying to nail him with the first 10 Sullivan murders."  
"The prints matched--"

The figure everyone knew as the D-man jerked forward and put his index finger under the man in the suit's nose. "Do you want to lose this case, or what?! They already caught the guy from ten years ago, Barnhart! He's dead! If you try to nail those on him, too, you'll be running a suicide mission." He leaned back and once again assumed that false state of calm.

"That's what _he _said," Barnhart semi-agreed, suddenly sweating profusely.

"He's _right,_" D-man agreed. "You guys can't pin him with that. In fact, you will probably want to keep that case _away _from the jury when you consider this one. The less they know about it, the better chance this guy has of getting off."  
"But Mr. Cart--"

"Listen, B.H.--if you bring up the first case, the fingerprints are going to come up. That's something about which I have no doubt. And if the prints come up, somebody somewhere is going to say something about how the prints were matched to the other guy, and how the other guy is dead. Then theories are going to start. We could still beat him down after that, but it might not be as effective unless we wait and nail him with just the _new_ murders. Besides, he only needs to get _one_ life sentence for our job to be done. All we need is one conviction for that, and we have four potential convictions right under our nose...as long as we don't get greedy."

Barnhart stood, amazed at how well the D-man had thought out this case. He should have; he'd been working on it for almost ten years. "I see your point, D-man. But there is one--"

"Drop the original murder charges. Those cases are closed. That's all I've got to say." And with that, the D-man turned and started for the door.

"But Mr. Cartland," Barnhart called after him, "are you sure we can get him with that?"

"I've got no doubt," Cartland said. "I'm going to go see him right now. See if I can get anything out of him myself. You people always have been incompetent." He shut the door, leaving Barnhart alone in the office.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walter wasn't all that surprised when Detective Dan showed up at his cell door. He was a chiseled guy, and with a tacky beige trenchcoat to match. He was pretty sure he'd seen this guy before, but he had no idea where that might be. He'd probably seen him in plainclothes, walking around town somewhere. Hell, maybe at Wal-Mart.

_Note to self,_ Walter thought, remembering the incident in Wal-Mart, _now you have _five _good reasons not to shop at Wal-Mart ever again._

"Well hey there, Detective Dan!" Walter jeered, and sat down on the metal bench in his cell. "I was waiting for you to show up. What are you going to offer me? Plea bargain? I could use a get-out-of-jail-free card, if you happen to have one lying around."

"My name is Douglas Cartland," the detective said, ignoring Sullivan's dull humor, and extended a hand. Walter didn't shake it. "I need to ask you a few questions."

"I'm not saying anything without my lawyer present," Walter said. It was a vain attempt.

"Who in a two-thousand-mile radius would represent _you?_" Douglas said, laughing dryly. "Everybody in the country will be right as rain once you're behind bars for life. Not even money can help you now, I'm afraid."

Walter laughed at this. "You think I'm rich, or something? I work part-time at Goody's to help pay for my college tuition, so I can go to school. I'm lucky if I can afford an edible dinner, much less a fancy lawyer." He stopped, stretched. "No, I was thinking somebody more like David J. Maloney--he will _personally _return my call." He laughed at that, but Douglas didn't understand. He frowned.

"Listen, Mr. Sullivan. I'm going to give you a chance to level with me: Did you kill those four people?" Douglas leaned forward, his eyes locking with Walter's.

That gaze was so strong, it held Walter's eyes even when he tried to look away. It was a stone gaze. "No," Walter said, and despite his sudden lack of confidence, he sounded perfectly believable. "I never killed anybody in my life. Honest."

Douglas sighed. "I thought you'd say that." He turned his head. "This is going to be a lot harder than I thought."

Walter glared. "You think I did it, too?"

"Can you blame me?" Douglas said. "We've had your prints on file ever since you left Wish House, and they turned up on some victims that may have been involved with the cult behind the Wish House. The first few victims were members of the cult, and it would make sense for you to kill them. From what I heard, you weren't exactly the most agreeable orphan in the House."

"I don't want to talk about that," Walter said, suddenly rattled. This man had done his homework.

He was starting to break down a little when he heard that voice again: _Watch and wait. And beware. He's trying to pry your mind._

Walter shook his head and blinked twice, hard.

"Something wrong?" Douglas asked with genuine concern.

"No," Walter lied. "Just feeling strange. I haven't touched anybody, and here I sit in a jail cell about to face life in prison just because I used to live with a bunch of religious nuts. That's descrimination, if you ask me."

Douglas was already shaking his head. "It's not just your affiliation with that cult that makes me think you are guilty. It's the prints and the blood, and the samples of _your _flesh we found under one of the victims' nails."

"I don't know how else to tell you," Walter went on. "I _didn't do it._ I never chose to be a member of Wish House, and I sure as hell didn't want to be a part of their freaky rituals. I don't have any affiliation with those douchebags!"

Douglas hid a smile. It was working; Sullivan was cracking. "I think you are. I think you're trying to hide it by pretending that you hate them. What do you think of that?"

Walter rose to his feet. "I think you ought to take that and shov--" Then he saw what was happening, noticed the beginning of a smile on Cartland's lips, and then sat down, dusting off his clean hands on his pants. "I don't care what you think," he amended. "Don't play mind-games with me, detective."

"I'm not playing any games," Douglas said. "You're the only one who's playing. And it's not just _your_ life you're playing with, either. You've ruined a lot of lives over the last ten years."

"I want to make a phonecall," Walter said, quite suddenly.

"What?" Douglas asked, startled. A phonecall? Who did this psycho know?

"A _phonecall_," Walter repeated slowly. "It's when I pick up the phone and punch in some--"  
"I know," Douglas said sharply. "Who are you going to call? Who do you know?"

"None of your business," Walter said.

"It _is _my business," Douglas insisted. "You might be in on something big. I want a name."

Walter consulted the voice in his mind--Walter #2's voice--and when he received a positive, he said, "Henry. Henry Townshend."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ten minutes later, Douglas sat in front of his desk in his office, talking with Barnhart and his other minion, Flash. Flash's full name was Flashphoeler, but since it was so hard for most people to say (it was pronounced _Flash-failer)_, they just called him flash. Douglas had another cigarette in between his fingers, and he drew a deep breath from it.

"You get anything?" Barnhart asked, tapping his foot nervously.

"Got a rise out of the Wish House deal," Douglas said. "That's the loose board. Now all we need is the crowbar, and we can pry this guy wide open. He'll tell us everything we need to know...and then he's ours."

Flash grinned. "Finally. It's been too long."

"Indeed it has," Douglas said. "Indeed...it has." Then, after a long pause: "Barnhart, get me some coffee. Decaf."

"What do you think I am, your--"

Douglas trained his cold eyes on Barnhart.

"Be back in a flash," Barnhart said, and he was.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walter flipped through the phone book below the ancient phone hanging from the wall at the end of the cell block. The book was at least two years old. Would it have the number Walter was looking for? He'd looked it up earlier, at the gas station, but he hadn't thought to record the number--hadn't thought he'd be needing it. He had only needed the address. Now, though, he needed the number.

F. Townshend.

Gregory Townshend.

R. Townshend.

Those were the only Townshends in the book. No Henry

"Damn," Walter said out loud. He needed to get in contact with Henry. Or if not with Henry, then at least with somebody who could get him out of here, even on bail. Even as he stood before the phone, he felt that strange sense of _tipping _that he had felt earlier that morning...the sense that some great pillar somewhere was about to give way, to drop everything it was holding. It was a gloomy feeling. He _had _to find Henry. That was all there was to it.

Walter reached into his pocket to see if he had another dime--he might need to make two quick calls instead of one--and his hand fell upon that key. His fingers closed around it before he realized what it was, and immediately he saw the phonebook back at the gas station, saw it in his mind:  
_H. Townshend, 1219 South Ashfield Street, South Ashfield Heights Apartments, Room 302._

That was what it had said. The number?

_H. Townshend, 1219 South Ashfield Street, South Ashfield Heights Apartments, Room 302. 335-4211._

It was as clear as day; when he closed his eyes, he could actually _see _the phonebook standing before him, feel the cool breeze from the chilly morning air, a breeze that hinted at the onset of winter. He could see the phonebooth in front of him, the buttons on the dial covered in some sticky, shiny substance--arsenic, probably.

Walter opened his eyes and remembered where he actually was: Ashfield City Jail. He punched in the numbers _335-4211._

Ring-ring-ring.

Ring-ring-ring.

Ring-ring-ring.

No answer.

"Damn it!" Walter hissed, and hung up the phone with a slam. His dime tumbled back out of the machine, and he caught it and put it in his pocket. He might need it later. For now, he was screwed.

A guard escorted Walter back to his cell, which was now empty except for his bench and a toilet. Douglas Cartland was gone.

_Good,_ the voice in Walters' mind said. _That will make our job much easier._

Walter started to ask what the other Walter meant...and then he thought he knew. A look of surprised terror crossed his face, and he shook his head. "Uh-uh," he said, stepping back from the cell. The guard to his left reached for his sidearm, believing Walter to be resisting...but then Walter went into the cell. The guard shut and locked the door and went back to patrol.

He thought he had it figured out now; how could he have been so stupid?  
Walter #2 had killed himself in a prison cell. Walter #2 had gotten Walter #1 captured by the police.

Did Walter #2 want Walter #1 to kill himself in this very prison cell?

"No way," Walter said under his breath. "No way in hell, man!"

_Don't worry, _Walter #2 assured him. _Your death is not part of our game...at least, not the way I planned it._

Walter sighed, not sure whether or not to trust that voice. It was, after all, just a voice in his mind. He was pretty sure there were pills that made things like that go away. Hell, for all he knew, he was just hallucinating all this about the key and the dreams and the voice.

_You aren't dreaming, _Walter #2 spoke up from within. _Now pay attention._

"Yeah," Walter said dreamily. "Pay attention to the voice. Got it."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walter paced in his cell for almost thirty minutes, wondering what was going to happen. He went over the story of how he had gotten here from his own study, reading a copy of _Nightmares and Dreamscapes,_ in less than a single day, but no matter how many times he thought it through, he still couldn't quite believe it...if not for this voice in his mind assuring him that there was a chance of escape, he probably _would _have committed suicide by now. He was pretty sure they would win their case against him even _if _they didn't have the prints to use against him. It was a rock-solid case, and let's face it: Everybody wanted Sullivan dead, anyway. Nobody would consider the idea that Walter and the other guy might just maybe have the same first and last name...it wasn't _that _uncommon, was it?  
But that still didn't explain the fingerprints. How could Walter defend himself against that? He _hadn't _done anything; how had his prints gotten at the scene?

Unless somebody had planted them there. But Walter didn't want to think about that. If that were true, then the deck was already well-stacked against him. Without some kind of Godlike intervention, Walter's life was essentially over.

But that was when Walter's pocket began to shiver.

"What the...?" Walter reached into his pocket...and produced the doll-shaped key given to him in that (dream?) by the other Walter. It was trembling slightly.

And its mouth seemed to be moving. Was it trying to speak?

Walter was mystified; he poked the doll on the keychain, barely the size of the tip of his forefinger. It twitched a little.

Suddenly, a horrible pain tore through Walter's head. He cried out, and several of the other inmates looked up. Perhaps they were expecting a suicide from this guy, too--why not? The first guy had done it. Why not this one?

Walter didn't commit suicide, nor did he die. He did, however, waver on the edge of blacking out. It was getting harder to see, even with his eyes wide open. Was it getting darker in here?

Looking around, Walter noticed something strange about the inmate in the cell across from his: the man had been wearing jeans and a tank-top shirt a minute ago. Now he seemed to be wearing a robe of some sort. But that wasn't what disturbed Walter; what disturbed Walter was the man's head. It seemed to be covered with a sheet that had been first drenched in blood and puss and then wrapped around his head several times. There was a narrow opening in the front of the towel-head-thing, as though it had been slit open with a large knife. Inside that opening he could see something that looked like an eye. It twitched inside its (socket?) and faced Walter, squirming and squeaking like an imprisoned mouse trying to escape its cage as it dies of hunger--

Walter screamed, dropping the key. He clutched his head with both hands, falling to his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut with all his might, refusing to see that, refusing to _believe _he had seen that. And the floors...oh, God, the floors, and the _walls_!

When he opened his eyes a second later, the prisoner across from him was just as he had been: a medium-built white man, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Nothing else. The walls and floors were just normal metal and stone. None of that weird stained-wood looking material he thought he had seen. Because he hadn't really _seen _that...had he? No, of course not.

The key was on the floor. Walter leaned down and picked it up. As he stood back up, he heard the man across from him ask, "Are you okay, man? You looked like you were havin' a major spaz-attack, or somethin'." The man sounded sickeningly like Tommy Chong when he spoke, especially when he used the word _man._

"Yeah," Walter answered, not wanting to rouse suspicions. "Yeah, I'm...I'm fine. Just a little under the weather, that's all."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour later, Douglas came back. Accompanied by two guards, he sat down on the bench across from Walter and put his hat down beside him.

"I'm not confessing," Walter said curtly.

"Guys?" Douglas said, and motioned to the guards. "Can you give us a minute?"

The guards obliged, and left.

"I don't expect you to confess," Douglas said. "At least, not yet."

Walter was unfazed. "What do you want, then? And what do you mean, 'not yet?'"

Douglas grinned. "I just wanted to bring you a really good deal. I talked to some guys up on the chain, and they say they that the best they can do is 20 years...if you'll confess to all four of the recent murders."

Walter rose to his feet and began to pace the cell very, very slowly. Douglas kept a wary eye on him, placing his hand on his hip casually, ready to draw his weapon if Walter showed the first sign of wanting to fight. "You want me to confess to something I didn't do," Walter began, "in defense of a cult of which I never really considered myself a part? A cult that, despite several under-handed child-killing psychosis-inducing _really conspicuous _attempts at ritual murder, you uniformed bozos haven't been able to lay a hand on?" Walter continued pacing, giving Douglas a wide berth. His eyes trained on the hand nearest Douglas' gun--the holster was beneath his jacket, but all the same, Walter appeared to be seeing it--for a second and then let up. "It seems to me like there is much, much more to this case than meets the eye."

"You got that right," Douglas muttered.  
"You know exactly what I mean," Walter said, turning to face Douglas, who twitched. Walter grinned at this, and clasped his hands behind his back. "I did nothing. You guys are after me because I have the same name as the guy from before. And why? Even if I was, you can't convict me of the same crimes twice!"

"That's where you're mistaken," Douglas broke in. "We're not after you for the original ten murders. Those are closed cases. We already caught the guy who did them. However, we--no, I--think that _you_ are the one who killed those four people in the woods around that town."

"What's wrong?" Walter jeered. "Afraid to say the name?"

Douglas was silent. He knew better; he avoided talking about that town as though speaking its name would invoke Lucifer himself.

"What's wrong with Silent Hill, detective?" Walter's amused tone had faded. It was replaced by a dark, dismal tone as he turned to look out the cell's only window. "They always told me it had another side, but I never really bought into that." He turned to Douglas again. "Do _you_ believe in magic?"

Douglas scratched his head anxiously. "Stop spouting gibberish," he blurted. "I'm not here to talk about...that place. I'm here to talk about what I think you did to those people. _You _know you did it, _I _know you did it...why don't you just confess? Why do you have to take it to the courts?"

"Because I will not go to prison," Walter said serenely. Coming from his mouth, the words had an undeniable surety to them. His eyes kept moving over to the wall of the cell, just under the window, as he spoke, and it was suddenly making Douglas very uncomfortable. Each time Walter glanced over that way, his eyes lit up like a child getting a birthday present.

"What?" Douglas said. "That's ridiculous! And why the hell do you keep staring at that wall?"  
"No," Walter returned, either not hearing the detective's question or downright ignoring it. "It's not. I didn't do anything. I won't go to prison and that's final. You can try me all you want, but you'll never prove it." Even to himself, the words felt like a lie.

Douglas snorted laughter. "The prisons across the country are full of men and women who've said that," he contributed. "You'll be seeing the inside of a cell again before too long. And this time, you _won't _be getting away."

Walter started to ask what he meant by that, but Douglas was already shutting the gate to the cell when Walter turned around. "Wait," he said, but Douglas didn't look back. "Wait!" He called, still to no avail.

_You're going down,_ Douglas ascertained in spite of his building uncertainty. _You're going down, and I'm going to be the one to _bring_ you down_.

Yet, somehow, deep inside, Douglas felt that there was something in this picture that he was missing. Sure, he had theories, Walter Sullivan having a fall guy being the most likely of them...but that didn't quiet the voice in his mind that whispered of the events in Silent Hill a few days ago. After all he had seen there, Douglas was starting to suspect that there might just be more to this story than he was seeing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sitting in his cell, Walter was starting to lose some of his superhuman confidence.

_What if they _do _nail me for those murders? _He thought, turning the strange doll-shaped key over and over in his hands. It no longer gave him a headache to hold the key, just a mild vertigo. _What if I'm really crazy, and this voice in my head and this key and this whole thing are all just part of some sick delusion?_

No, he was pretty sure that delusional people didn't think about things like that. Besides...he had noticed something interesting during his conversation with the detective. Now, he went to the back wall of his cell and hunkered down in front of it.

If he looked very, very closely, he could see that the grooves in the brick wall seemed to be connected in a curved line down in one corner of the wall. It made a pattern like a part of a pie-chart. Walter ran his hand along the grooves, not really sure why he found this pattern to be so hope-inspiring.

_Hey! _Walter said to the voice in his mind. _Hey, does this mean something?_

An hour ago, the voice had been guiding him, telling him what to say and do. Now, however, it had gone quiet. For some reason, the word _busted!! _popped into Walter's mind, and he got a queasy feeling.

He was stuck here in jail, awaiting trial for the murders of four people he had never met, with no way out.

His hands clenched tightly around the key. He was suddenly very pissed off, at himself or at Walter #2 he wasn't sure--if none of that had even happened, then he had only himself to blame for going crazy. However, if it _had _happened, then the blame lay with the other Walter, for abandoning him in his time of need.

Looked like Walter #1 was going to have to figure a way out of this on his own.

As he put the doll-shaped key back in his pocket, Walter felt something soft and papery brush his hand. He dropped the key into his coat and picked the piece of paper out of the same pocket.

_Go to him. Give him the number. The number is NINETEEN. 19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19..._This was written down the front of the sheet, and on the back, the numbers continued. Walter remembered finding it under his bedroom door, and was overcome with a wave of short-term nostalgia. He sure had managed to screw himself in a short period of time!

He began to fold the sheet of paper and put it back in his pocket--

Wait...

Walter unfolded the paper again and looked at it. He read the front page slowly. Then he turned it over.

Something was different. But what? Something was wrong with this page--it looked different than it had before. Something small had changed, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Whatever...he would figure it out later. Right now, he had to think of a way out. The number would probably come in handy somewhere between now and when he finally met this 'Henry' character, but until then, it would probably be useless.

Walter sat down on the bench, mentally exhausted. He was sick of thinking; let the Great Escape Plan come tomorrow. Right now, he felt like he'd been run over by a truck. He lay his head down, face pointed toward the back wall of the cell...

...and then brought it promptly back up again as he beheld the strangest thing he had ever seen.

The wall was cracking. Not caving in, not breaking, per se...but in a circular pattern that covered most of the wall, cracks were beginning to appear. Now a complete circular crack was on the wall, and it covered the entire wall.

"What the...hell?" Walter watched with astonishment. Dualing halves of his mind simultaneously hoped for and against the notion that _this _was what the voice had been telling him to wait for.

Seconds later, another circular crack appeared just inside the first. The two cracks were less than a millimeter apart. Three more larger circles appeared inside those two, and then a sixth and a seventh appeared outside of the first two.

At the top of the circular pattern, a design that was shaped suspiciously like an eye began to form.

Walter knew that symbol. He knew it very well, from his days in the Wish House orphanage, which had actually been the front for the reigious cult known as the Order.

It was the Halo of the Sun; a praise to God.

And here it was, appearing on the wall in his cell.

Walter almost fainted, but at the last minute he gained control and bit his lower lip with all his might. _No you _don't, he told himself, and noticed that his lip was now bleeding. He didn't care.

The circular shape then began to _implode. _The outer four circles stayed in their place, but everything inside of them began to crumble inward and form a tunnel. The hard brick was pulled back as though by some kind of supernatural vaccuum cleaner, and when all was said and done, Walter stood before a portal almost _exactly _like the one he had encountered in his house that morning.

"Holy shit," he said, and blinked several times rapidly.

"Whatchyoo screamin' about?" The man across from him shouted, banging on the bars. "Shuddap, I'm tryin' to sleep here!"

"Sorry," Walter said, sighing as he turned around. So the guy couldn't see it? He was facing _right_ _at _the thing. Must have been 'magical' or something. Sounded pretty stupid.

When he stepped closer to the hole--the _portal--_he felt that familiar sense of need, like he had that morning. He _had _to go down there; there was no question in it. He had to, and that was it. So he lifted up his foot and stepped into the hole.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Raymond Daniels, the man sitting in the cell across from Walter, had just gotten settled into his bench when he'd heard the guy across from him scream, "Holy shit!"

"Whatchyoo screamin' about?" He called, tired. "Shuddap, I'm tryin' to sleep here!" Then he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. A few minutes later, he heard some animal-like grunting noises.

"Why don't you just--" he turned to say, and stopped.

The guy in the cell across from him--the guy in the blue coat--was out cold. He was lying on the ground, quiet as a mouse. He didn't even look like he was breathing.

"Hey, dude?" Ray called, banging on the bars a little with his fist. "Dude, you okay? You don't look so hot." He tapped the bars again.

No response.

"Fine," Ray added. "Fuck you very much," he said, and went back to sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walter fell a long way--the tunnel veered directly downward after about ten feet, as Walter had expected, and at the bottom he had passed through one of those static-noise fields. When he woke up, he was in a strange place.

It _looked _like the outside of the police station, but...different. For one, a thick fog permeated the wet air, and Walter could barely see two inches in front of him. The streets were empty. The only sound was the occasional howl of the wind.

Walter turned around and saw, not to his surprise, that the hole was gone.

Shrugging, he started forward. He almost tripped over a log--God knew what _that _was doing there--and then he saw a softly moving shape through the fog. Visual distortion factored in, it couldn't be more than a few hundred yards away. Whatever it was, it was bright. Perhaps a fog-light? How convenient.

Walter continued through the mist, hesitating for a moment when he heard a far-off howl. There was something wrong with that howl. It sounded just like any normal dog...but at the same time, it _didn't_. It sounded _mean_, not innocent or earthly like a normal dog.

"Just go," he said to his feet, and they went.

Soon he reached the edge of a small drop. It couldn't be more than ten feet, but to be sure, he plucked a twig from some brush to his right and tossed it straight down into the drop, like a harpoon. The twig was about half as tall as Walter--three feet, roughly--and it splashed into a shallow puddle of something at the bottom of the drop. It wasn't even as deep as the twig, which poked out higher than the ground Walter now stood on. He stepped down into the drop, which turned out to be less than a foot deep, and crossed it.

Just as he finished climbing up the other side, he heard another howl in the distance. That dog-thing again. This time it sounded closer, and that made Walter nervous. Before, when he had spoken to the other Walter, he'd had a feeling of invulnerability, like the forces at work here were on _his _side. Now, he had a feeling that was pretty much the opposite. That thing intended to eat him, if it could catch him.

Walter stepped up his pace a bit, coming to the edge of a road. The bright glimmer was very close now--just a hundred feet or so in the distance--and Walter could make it out for what it was: a campfire.

Who would be crazy enough to camp in a place like this? Hell, who even knew how to _get _to a place like this? As far as Walter knew, this place wasn't even technically real.

Nevertheless, Walter started across the road. As he stepped out into the middle of the road, he saw that it was a four-lane highway. He crossed to the median, stopped, looked both ways, and started across the second pair of lanes.

As if his foot touching the pavement had been a cue, a pair of headlights appeared in the distance. A loud horn sounded, and Walter jumped back on to the median with a girlish scream. As he did, the sound faded, and the headlights turned.

A car. And it had turned down some other road before it had even reached Walter. He sighed, laughing at himself, and stepped back onto the road.

The horn sounded again, and the headlights reappeared.

Walter screamed again and jerked himself back onto the median. Again, the lights in the distance faded.

"What the...?!" Walter mumbled, frustrated. He leaned his head out into the road, taking care to keep his feet off the road, and peered into the distance.

Nothing.

"Probably a fluke," Walter said, and started across the road again. He walked slowly, anticipating the car's reappearance. When it didn't appear again, he knew it would be okay to cross.

"Okay," he said giddily, and crossed the first lane. He was in the dead-center of the road when the horn sounded again, and the headlights reappeared in the fog.

They were close. _Too _close.

"Shit!" Walter said, and faked left. The headlights followed him, as though they were locked on to him. He only had time to make it to the other side; if he turned back, the car was going to smash him to raspberry jam.

Then the car passed into view. It was a dark sillhouette against the fog, but Walter saw it clearly enough: It was old, and blue around the edges...but the majority of the car was splattered with blood. The windshield, the grill, the hood, the side-doors, the tires, all smeared with crimson liquid. The splatters seemed to fan outward from the grill of the car, Walter saw with no surprise. In his excitement he almost forgot to move to his right. He ran for the curb.

He wasn't going to make it. The last five feet looked like five miles from here, with the car less than twenty feet to his left. It was like the damned thing _knew _where he was going to move!

"_Fuck you!"_ Walter said, and leaped. He landed on his right hip, bruising it and causing himself to cry out, and rolled the last six inches, up and over the curb. He felt the cold steel of the bumper brush his left shoulder, and recoiled from its touch. Leaping to his feet, Walter wiped sweat from his eyes--anticipation-sweat.

"Mother _fucker!!_" Walter shot the car a pair of middle fingers, and spat in the direction it had gone. As he did this, he noticed that there was a stain on the left shoulder of his coat.

Blood.

Walter tapped the wound with his finger. It didn't hurt. That was because it wasn't a wound. It wasn't even his blood. It must have brushed off of the bumper of that car when he had brushed against it.

Shivering, Walter hid his other arm inside of its sleeve and wiped the blood from his shoulder to thin the volume of it. He would have to wash this coat, if and when he ever got home again.

As he turned away from the road, he heard that demonic howl in the distance--if distance was even the right word anymore. Damn dog. It was very close now.

Walter continued toward the bright object which he now knew to be a campfire. It was less than ten feet away now. He came forward, clearing those last feet in just five steps.

He was at some sort of peculiar campsite. There was no tent, no sleeping bag, and no food. Just a pair of logs, positioned across from each other like chairs. Between them, a fire burned.

On the side of the fire parallel to Walter, a square object lay. As he approached it, it began to shake madly and emit loud, tortured screams. Walter, too, screamed and pulled back.

"Don't worry, he doesn't bite," a voice said, coming out of the fog on Walter's left, and he turned immediately.

There _he _sat, on the log before the fire. Right smack in front of the square object that had shrieked at him. Walter realized that the square thing was a cage, and there was some sort of hellish creature inside. It looked like a dog, and right away Walter knew that it was the creature he had heard howling. It let loose another blood-chilling, carnivorous howl of torment, sending gooseflesh all down Walter's spine.

"What did you _do?!_" Walter asked, staring at the figure which sat before him. "What's that?" He pointed to the dog-thing. "And what did you do to this place?"

Walter #2 laughed out loud, drawing another howl from the creature. "Oh, dear boy...please, sit down. We must hold palaver once more." He tugged on a wooden stick, which dangled over the fire. Walter #1 hoped that was a marshmallow on the end, but it looked a little too big and a little too solid. But still he hoped.

"What if I don't?" Walter #1 shot back, although he had no intention to deny this man--this _thing--_anything he asked, as long as he brought no harm to Walter #1 himself.

"I suppose nothing," Walter #2 said. "Right away, at least. If you don't, then when our short time here is through, you will wake up in prison, and your life will carry on as though this never occurred. If that sounds appetizing, then by all means, do so." He tugged on the stick, and the fire crackled.

"So you've locked me down," Walter #1 said. "Is that why you got me arrested? Did you think I wouldn't comply with your request?" He sat down across from Walter #2, keeping a close eye on the dog-thing in the cage. It had such tiny, dim-witted eyes, and regarded him with foolish, empty-headed hunger. Its head split open down a central seam, and inside it were things too horrible to look at. Walter #1 turned his head away.

"If by that you mean, did I make you do anything, then...no, I didn't. Manipulating free will is beyond my power. It's even beyond God's power. So I leave you with the choice. However..." Walter #2 hesitated.

"However...?"

"However, I can't say for sure that you will have much of a life _left _if you go back now. So, if you want to die, go on back. Good luck crossing the street!" He smiled a sickish smile at Walter #1. "But I don't think that's what you want."

Walter #1 sighed. "You'd be right. What, can you read my mind, or something?"

No answer.

"So, what do I do now?" He fidgeted on the log, gasping a deep breath. The thick fog, combined with his nerves, was making it very hard to breathe out here. "I'm stuck in jail. If you want me to get this message to that Henry guy, you're gonna need to help me out."

"I can't do that," Walter #2 said with a perfectly straight face, and Walter #1's heart sank.

"What do you mean?! How do you expect me to get them to let me out? They want to convict me on four charges of murder!" Walter #1 rose up off the log in a rage.

"It's Ka," Walter #2 said without raising his eyes from the fire.

"Ka, my ass!" Walter #1 said. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do. I can't get to this Henry guy if I'm stuck in prison!"

"You'll find a way," Walter #2 said. "If Ka wills it."

Walter #1 stared in disbelief. "I can't believe this," he said, and sat back down. "I am screwed. I am royally screwed. What do you expect me to do?"  
Walter #2 eyed him with a sly expression. "They know, Walter."

"What?"  
"They know about our palaver. They don't know _what _we talk about, but they know that we talk. And that's bad."

"Who's they?"

"The town. Them."  
"Silent Hill?"

"Shush! To speak its name is surely damnation for one's own soul, especially for those who plan to venture there!"

"What do you mean?"  
"Walter, you have to _stop Them from taking Henry._ He'll be going soon."

"_I don't know how!"_

"That doesn't matter. The point is, I can't tell you anything. _They_ don't like being defied."

"_I_ don't like being fucked with."

"You're _not_ being fucked with."

"So you say."

"Listen. That man is your only chance. The detective. Go to him, and tell him your story."

"What? You mean Cartland? That man is--"

"He _is_ your only chance, is what he _is._"

"How can he help me?"  
"He can be...influenced. If you know the right words."

"What do you mean?"

"He has been to...that place. He knows what kind of things could be waiting there for you."  
"So _what_?"

"Just ask him about it." And with that, Walter #2 rose to his feet and started off into the fog, leaving the caged animal(?) and the stick with the thing on the end back at the 'campsite'.

"So what, I'm just supposed to figure this out myself?" Walter #1 called after him.

Walter #2 said nothing, just nodded once, sharply.

"Yeah, well you know what? You're a _jackass!_" Walter #1 put up his fist, as though to give him the finger...but he didn't quite dare flip 'himself' off. He had no idea what 'he' was capable of.

Walter #2 laughed a little, and continued to walk. Soon after, he faded into the fog. As the distance between the two Walters grew, Walter #1 was gradually enveloped in a static noise field. His head started to pound, and then to scream, and then it felt like it was going to explode, and then...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything was black.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Walter awoke, he was back in his cell. He couldn't remember the events of his (dream? hallucination? journey?) at first, but as the minutes passed by and time set back in, Walter remembered bits and pieces of it--fortunately, most of his conversation with his other self.

_That man is your only chance. The detective. Go to him, and tell him your story._ Those words echoed in his head. As far as he knew, the detective was his _enemy._ How was he going to convince him to _help _him?

He looked through the bars, into the cell across from his...and noticed that the drunk who had been sleeping there was gone. Another drunk back on the streets to kill people. Walter laughed at the irony of his having thought of that.

Walter stood against the bars of his cell, looking out with longing, wishing that he had never gotten into this pickle in the first place.

_Should have just moved to Alaska_.

END OF CHAPTER 5


	6. A Conversation

**Chapter 6**

**A Conversation**

_"In the back of the cell_

_The plug and the cord_

_Shoulder dislocation_

_Bruised in isolation..."_

Sleep, _Midnight Oil_

_(Red Sails In The Sunset)_

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"Wake up."

Stirring. Moaning and groaning.

"Wake up. _Now._" Rattling.

"Nnnnnnn."

"Oh, for chrissakes. Get your lazy ass up already!" Loud banging, echoes.

Walter jerked suddenly, sliding off of the bench he had been calmly sleeping on before this rude awakening. "_Jesus!_" He hit the floor with a _thud._

"'Bout time," the southern voice said, snorting. "Thought you were gonna sleep all day."

Walter sat up, just now gaining his composure. "What...who are you?"  
"Name's John. John Herring. I'm the cop you almost got killed yesterday." Herring stood tall outside Walter's cell, in full regalia, as though he hadn't taken a bullet in the leg and shoulder the day before. "You got a visitor," the man added, and stepped to one side.

Walter spat when he saw Douglas Cartland. "The hell do you want?" He stood up, dusting himself off. The floor of the cell was much dirtier than he'd imagined. "Didn't you jerks grill me enough yesterday?"

Douglas' stone gaze didn't waver. "You and I have unfinished business," he said calmly, and motioned to Herring to go away. "I want a few simple answers, and if you want your life to get easier for awhile before it gets worse, you'll give them to me." Douglas produced a key ring and opened the cell door. He stepped inside, closing it behind him as he took a seat on the bench closest to the door.

"Don't you want your buddy to watch your back?" Walter asked, unimpressed.

"I'll be fine without him," Douglas insisted.

"Aren't you afraid I'll pull a weapon on you, or something?"  
Douglas cracked a faint smile. "Buddy, we searched you from head to toe when our guys brought you in. You ain't even got pocket fuzz." He placed one hand on his knee. It was a gesture Walter recognized--it said, 'this'll be easier than I thought.'

"But..." Walter started to say, and trailed off. The detective had just said that Walter didn't have anything on him, hadn't he? But that was...

"But what?" Douglas asked, distracted and uninterested, as Walter briefly fished around in his pockets.

Walter stopped, hesitating, and took his hands out of his pockets. His key and the note were still there. But how was that? The detective'd just said--

"Look, you can go back to whatever hocus-pocus thing you were doing before as soon as I get my answers. Until then, I'd better have your cooperation." Douglas produced a notebook from his inside coat pocket. Damn, did he _ever_ take off that trenchcoat? It was awfully hot in here...

Walter thought of the coat he was wearing right now, and laughed. Of _course _it was hot. Dumbass. "What makes you think I'll cooperate with you?" Now it was his own turn to smile.

A sigh. "You're already in the crapper pretty deep. You're in no place to refuse cooperation."

"If I'm screwed, then what does it matter if you make my life a little harder before you knock me off?" Walter asked, his voice starting to rise. "Hell, I'll bet I would be lucky if I even made it to my trial! The way you cops talk about me, it's like you want to kill me yourself!"

"Oh, they all do," Douglas said calmly.

Walter flinched. "What?"

"Every one of them," Douglas said, motioning out towards the main building of the precinct. "They all want to kill you with their own hands. These bars are the only thing you have protecting you right now."

Walter's eyes twitched. "Is that a threat, detective? Because that's very unprofessional, I hope you know."

"I'm not threatening anybody," Douglas said, waving a dismissive hand. "It's the truth. I'm probably the closest thing to a friend you've got in here. Hell, in this whole city. Maybe even the whole state. You don't seem to realize exactly how bad off you are."

Walter snorted, a smug expression crossing his face. "I'd rather take my chances on the streets than in here with you assholes. What if one of your cronies decided to take a gun to my head while I was sleeping? Huh? How would I defend myself then?"

Douglas said nothing.

"Exactly," Walter continued.

"I don't give a damn," Douglas said curtly. "Anything you can say to me, I've heard a million times before. Putting you in this cell is probably the safest thing we could do for you right now."

"If you've got something to say to me, just say it!" Walter shouted. "Quit beating around the bush. Why are you here?"

Douglas grinned. "That really depends on whether or not you'll cooperate."

Walter scowled. "Fuck you," he spat, and looked out the tiny barred window.

Douglas fiddled around in his jacket, and Walter's eyes darted over in that direction when he heard the sound of the detective's clothes rubbing together as he searched. For a moment, Walter seriously thought that the old fool had really decided to just mow him down right here. But that was just his paranoia talking; the newspaper Douglas handed him proved it. "Read it," he advised.

Walter took the paper and read the headline: _MURDER SUSPECT'S HOME BURNED BY NIGHTFALL, ARSON SUSPECTED._

Beneath the caption was a color photo of Walter's house.

Or rather, what was left of it.

"You son of a bitch!" Walter barked, throwing the paper at the detective. "You did this! All of you, you're in it together!" He turned back to the window, shaking. _So much for not letting them get to me_, he thought, and felt tears trying to well up behind his eyes. What the hell had he ever done to anybody? Why was he taking the rap for that psychopath? Because he'd been with the cult? That was bullshit--the cops were profiling him, was what it was. Religious profile. They knew where he'd come from, and they hadn't been able to get to anyone involved with the cult for some time now, despite the Order's obvious attempts to cover their own tracks. He should have seen it before; they were probably trying to use him to get to the cult. Yeah, that had to be it. They couldn't really be serious about the murder charges, could they? They would never be able to put him away based on prints alone...right?

_Don't kid yourself,_ a voice spoke up in his mind. _You're only setting yourself up for a bigger disappointment. Go ahead and start dealing with it now: You're screwed. Royally. You'll be lucky to get out of this alive, much less with a life to go back to._

Walter thought of the other Walter for a moment, then realized it was only his own thoughts. Or maybe he was just schizo--wouldn't that be nice? An insanity plea would at least get him out of life in prison. He really wasn't looking forward to being some other butch's bitch. He wasn't exactly Biff Tannen himself, you know.

"I haven't done a thing," Douglas assured him, picking up the paper off the dusty floor and dusting it off with one sleeve of his coat. "Nor have my inferiors here at the station, dumb as they may be. This was done by your very own Pleasant River hate crowd. I'll spare you the details, but...let's just say that a particularly nasty form of DNA evidence was...'deposited' on your front doorstep."

Walter's fists clenched tightly together. For a moment, he actually considered tackling the stupid, witty, annoying jackass of a detective and wringing his scrawny old-fogey neck...but that would seal the deal for sure. He had an image to keep up, if he planned on keeping his asshole the same size for the rest of his life. That, and he had a feeling the detective wasn't quite as slow or scrawny as he let on. The guy may have been annoying, but he was smart. _Damn _smart. "What do you want from me?" He asked softly, trying not to show his tension.

"I just want to know about..." he flipped through the notepad, as though he had misplaced the term he needed. "...the 21 Sacraments."

The phrase had barely passed his lips before Walter blurted, "I don't know what you're talking about." Then, Walter recoiled, furrowing his eyebrows, as though he didn't understand...but it wasn't Douglas he was looking at.

"Are you okay?" Douglas asked, leaning forward. If Walter had so pleased, he could have easily shot out and snapped the detective's neck, simply because the man wasn't paying attention. But he didn't.

"I'm fine," Walter said, but his voice was far-off, and he had an expression on his face which suggested that he had seen something very odd fly by, and in an attempt to catch what it might have been, he had confused himself. "What were you saying?" His eyes never left the floor; He appeared to be in deep thought.

"I asked you about the 21 Sacraments. Do you know what those might be?" But Douglas was already pretty sure that he wasn't going to get anything out of this guy, at least not tonight. He waved a hand over Walter's eyes, and Walter snapped out of the trance-like state he had been in.

"Huh?" Walter said, as though from within a doze. His eyes were cloudy, his lids half-shut. "Oh...no." That puzzled look slowly faded, and Walter shook his head, as though to clear it. "Sorry, I...I don't feel so well."

Douglas raised an eyebrow. "Don't play games with me, Sullivan," he said...but some part of him thought that maybe Sullivan wasn't kidding around. Whatever the case, this was one guy Douglas would have to keep an eye on.

Walter sighed. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. I've never heard of these 21 sacraments." He turned and sat on the bench, then dropped his head into his hands. "Any other questions?"

Douglas flipped through his notebook again. Pages flew, and just the sound of it was all of a sudden too much for Walter--his head was pounding. He took one hand away from his face and looked at it, and saw that he had broken out in a sweat. Again, so much for keeping composure. Was he getting sick?

"Did you know a woman named Claudia?" Douglas asked, and was that the faintest hint of some black emotion in his voice?

"Claudia..." Walter said, trailing off...but not because he didn't know. He knew that name well. He'd never spoken to her, but her father, Leonard...he had been one of the most feared priests in the Order, at least before his daughter had had him hauled away to the funny-farm. Now, the guy was rotting in some white room in some hospital over in Silent Hill.

"Do you?" Douglas pressed, sounding just the slightest bit anxious. "It's important."

Walter took a deep breath. Jesus, the air was getting heavy in here. What was the thermostat turned up to? It felt like an oven in here. Walter wriggled out of his jacket, slapping it onto the bench beside him.

Douglas regarded him with a raised eyebrow and an awkward grin.

"The hell's your problem?" Walter asked him, suddenly very tired. "I do something funny?"

Douglas shook his head, but his wide eyes spoke more truth than his head. "No, nothing at all," Douglas said, as though it were some plain-and-simple fact. "Did you have something to add?"

Walter wiped the sweat off of his face, then thought of saying, _how about I 'add' my foot to your old gray ass?_ But then he thought better. "Where's your partner? I find it hard to believe that you just up and decided to come and talk to me about the Order without somebody to stand over my shoulder and make sure I don't try anything."

"Don't change the subject," Douglas said sharply.

"You're not the only one asking questions, here," Walter said. "I don't know what made you want to come after _me_, but if you're trying to get at the Order, I'm not your man. I barely remember anything about those days. How can I? It was eighteen years ago." Walter leaned back against the stone wall and took another deep breath. _God, _it was so hot in here! "So where's your buddy? Come on, it's not _that_ important, is it?"

Douglas sighed. "Are you going to answer my questions, or not?"

"Probably not," Walter said.

"Then I've got no more business here," Douglas said, and with that he stood up to leave. Just as he closed the door that separated the two of them, Walter got an idea.

"Hey, Detective Dan!" Walter called from within the cell. Douglas turned around, perhaps hoping that he had changed his mind. "How do you like my jacket?"

"Don't screw with me, kid," Douglas said, casting an uncertain glance at Walter, and then he turned the key in the lock on the cell and started down the hall.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Asking him about the jacket had been only part of his experiment; Walter had kept his suspicions at bay for awhile, but now he was pretty sure of one thing: The detective couldn't see his jacket, or anything in it.

Walter had been arrested, but he could remember only bits and pieces of his 'booking'; all he could remember was that a) they hadn't taken his jacket, hadn't even _looked _in it, and that b) the cops hadn't been very gentle with him. And honestly...could he have expected them to be? They _did _think he was a serial killer, after all...

"Still doesn't give them an excuse to treat me like that," he mumbled, wiping sweat from his forehead. All of a sudden, his face was drying up. The temperature seemed to have dropped at least twenty degrees since the detective had gone. Now, it almost seemed _cold_ in here. Walter looked at his jacket, which lay on the bench beside him. He reached into it lazily, pulling out the red piece of paper.

_Go to him. Give him the number. The number is NINETEEN. 19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19-19..._

Still didn't make any sense. Probably never would. All the same, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was a very important piece of paper, like a land deed or the ownership papers for one's first house. He haphazardly stuffed the crumpled mass back into his pocket, and took out the doll-shaped key.

Hey...wait a moment.

Had that been there before? He wasn't sure.

Just under the chain part, where the key was linked to the little plastic doll, were the numbers '108.'

108?  
What did that mean?

"Whatever," Walter said, and tossed the key in there with the paper. He'd think about it tomorrow; right now, he felt like he might just be getting over a cold. Probably a good thing; now was the worst time to get sick, right before one's trial for the murder of four people. Wouldn't that just be keen, if he dropped dead mere days before his murder trial? Nobody would care...there probably wouldn't even be an investigation. It always had to be the shady types, didn't it?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas sat in a wooden chair in the lounge at the Ashfield Police HQ, sipping on a cup of coffee that he really didn't want. But he was too determined to sleep (he knew that would probably affect the quality of his work, and cursed himself for going on in spite of this); he wanted to take Sullivan down too badly.

But there was something else on his mind, too.

There was the Harry Mason case. Or, as it was more widely known, the Harry Morris case. Harry had been found dead in his living room chair, with a book on his lap. Of course, he'd been the one to actually find the book; the man's daughter had probably missed it in her grief. But that was where all the normalities surrounding the case ended.

That woman, Claudia. She had been behind all of it. Of that Douglas was certain.

It had been her that he had met with, at every twist and turn along that bumpy road. She had hired him to find a girl, and he had taken it--the sum she'd offered had been more than generous; it had been ridiculous--of course, that had been back when he'd had no clue of what kinds of things that woman was capable of.

Sure, he'd found the girl at the mall in Portland, Maine--that part had been cake--but afterward, the strange things had started. That had only been the start of this mystery. Then, finding those bodies in the woods just outside of Silent Hill? That had to be a coincidence.

But it wasn't. Douglas was sure of it. Silent Hill...he'd said it right the first time--that was one screwed-uptown. There was something wrong with all of it.

He hadn't wanted to send Herring to Silent Hill--he was almost sure that _something _would go wrong; that place was like the Bermuda Triangle--but right now, it seemed like their best move. That letter...it had been all but a tell-all.

_Come to Silent Hill, at the corner of Sanders and Lindsey Street in South Vale. I know you are trying to bring down the cult, and I want to help you. Don't think--just come._

It was the last line..._Don't think--just come..._that bothered Douglas. What kind of thing was that to put in a letter? The guy was probably a toon, but it was their only lead, since Sullivan wasn't talking. Douglas just hoped that lead actually panned out. He knew that the girl had done something in Silent Hill just a couple of days ago...but, despite her reassurances, he wasn't quite convinced that the town was through with them yet--himself, _or _the girl. No wonder she'd gone crazy.

Douglas set his coffee cup down and checked his watch. It was eight o'clock p.m. of the day on which they had captured Walter Sullivan. Herring wouldn't be back until late the next day, and that would only be if things panned out well. If not...Douglas wouldn't consciously think it. What he _did _acknowledge was that he currently feared for Herring's life.

And maybe for his mortal soul, as well.

END OF CHAPTER 6


	7. A Plan Like No Other

**Chapter 7**

**A Plan Like No Other**

_"Look at all the toys I got_

_Look at all the things I need_

_Look at all the toys I got_

_Look at all the mouths I feed_

_Have I got a wonderful deal for you_

_What belongs to me belongs to you_

_I understand what you're going through_

_I know the point to push you to_

_My policy helps me helps you_

_Generosity helps me helps you_

_Conspiracy helps me helps you_

_Put your trust in me I'll help you too"_

Helps Me Helps You, _Midnight Oil_

_(Red Sails In The Sunset)_

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**Douglas** stepped over the police tape that separated the Masons' living room from the outside balcony of their small apartment. He brushed past Arnold "Arnie" Cavalier, the forensic scientist on the Mason case, as he went into the kitchen.

"Something wrong, Cartland?" Arnie asked him, looking up from his current task, which was collecting microfibers with a set of strange tools. "You seem like you got somethin' on your mind."

"No," Douglas lied, staring out the window in the kitchen. It afforded him a not-so-nice view of the dead landscape beyond. This whole place seemed a lot deader since Harry's murder and Heather's confinement. Hell, the only reason Douglas himself hadn't joined Heather in the mental ward was because he hadn't spoken up about the things he'd seen in that town. He thought it was safe to say now that he'd gotten it right the first time around: That was one screwed-up town.

"You sure?" Arnie pursued, but he was already going back to his work, so it was mostly a question made for conversation. "Whatever floats your boat, man," he finished, and disappeared back into his own little world.

However, Douglas _did _have something on his mind. Why the hell was he even here at all? He already knew what had happened, and that Heather had been right about everything from the first word. He'd never actually gone on the roof before they'd left the apartment that time, but he trusted the girl. What reason would either of them have had to lie? In light of all this, he'd still come here with the forensics guys. It was a foolish charade; he was only here because, to the knowledge of the forensics team--as well as everyone else who knew him--his first visit to the Mason residence had been on the day he'd 'discovered' and reported the body of Harry Mason to the Portland PD. If he had told anybody about his _real _first visit to this sad place, that would have raised too many questions. Questions Douglas couldn't--or wouldn't--answer.

"Well, that's pretty much it for this room," Arnie said, standing up and dusting off his already blindingly white shirt. "We were thinking about closing up shop for the night, maybe coming back tomorrow. You coming?"

Douglas didn't reply. He stood by the window over the stove, staring out the window, lost in thought.

"Doug?"

Douglas started, then glanced at Arnie. He was about to ask what the forensic scientist had said when it registered. "Oh, sure, I guess." He sighed, then started towards the sliding-glass door that lead out into the back yard, where his car was parked.

"Cool. You wanna go out for pizza?" Arnie asked provocatively. "It's Hot Stuff!"

"No, thanks," Douglas responded, again brushing past the scientist, this time on his way out. "I'd better get back to Ashfield. It's been a long day."

"Oh," Arnie said, and Douglas could almost hear his heart sink. "Well, maybe next time, right?"

"Maybe next time," Douglas agreed, and climbed into the front seat of his car.

And with that said, Douglas pulled out of the Mason's yard and onto the main road, which he took all the way up until he reached Highway 80. He drove silently in the night all the way back to Ashfield, not turning on the radio, not listening to his taped reading of Stephen King's "The Gunslinger," which he was halfway through, and not thinking. There was too much to think about, and not enough to do about any of it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**While** Douglas was in Portland, not really doing anything and wishing he were back at the Ashfield Police Department trying to break Walter Sullivan, Walter himself sat on the bench in his cell, counting the ridges on the ceiling, one every second, to keep track of time. He'd learned how to count a true minute in his head a long time ago, and while he sometimes found that helpful, he sometimes found that it only made things worse. Knowing how long he'd been locked up in here made him want to start thinking about all the things he _could _be doing right now, and that was poison to his current situation...especially when it was considered that he might be spending the rest of his life in a room not too much different from this one.

He had been thinking about a lot of things, but the one thing that never really left his mind was what the other Walter had told him in that strange other world:

_Just ask him about it..._

_He can be...influenced, if you know the right words..._

_He has been to Silent Hill. He knows what kind of things could be waiting there for you..._

_Just ask him about it..._

That last one was what kept occuring to him. He knew he could use his knowledge of the detective's experience in Silent Hill to manipulate him...but the problem was, how would he manipulate the detective into _helping _him? Right now, the only thing the guy wanted to see more than Walter behind bars was Walter dead in an alley somewhere. Those weren't good odds, even when you considered that some being just short of God Himself was on his side.

Even if, in some far-fetched way, that God _was _himself.

Walter rolled over on the bench, his mind all but gone from his body...and then he rolled off the bench. He hit the hard floor with a smack and a rustle as the edge of the bench pushed his shirt up to his elbows, exposing the skin beneath and allowing the hard concrete on the floor to scrape it, eroding the first layer of skin off of his lower belly. Walter cursed under his breath and sat up, rolling his shirt back down and tucking it loosely back into his khaki pants. Yeah, this was getting to be some kind of day; if he got hurt like this when nobody was even around, he thought, imagine what would happen when the dirty cops got back!

"That'll be something for Dateline," Walter mumbled, and lurched over to the window. It was narrow, and barely afforded a view of the back parking lot...but at least it was somewhere that wasn't here. The inside of this cell was looking drabbier all the time, and Walter didn't know how much more of this isolation he could stand. At least when the cops came in to question him, he could play with them a little bit. But this was just boring.

He'd once heard of people who could watch a movie, memorize the entire spoken script of that movie, and then play it back from memory later on, when they weren't doing anything, like waiting for a flight or sitting through a boring lecture. Walter hadn't really believed that when he'd heard it, but right now that didn't matter; he really wished he could do that. At least it would kill the time. After all, if there was one thing Walter Romero Sullivan _couldn't _do well, it was waiting. Well, that, and maybe doing pull-ups. He'd always satisfied himself with the latter by saying, _It doesn't matter how many pull-ups you can do if I have a gun and you don't._ This was because of the .45 automatic he normally kept in the glove box in his car. Thankfully, it was sitting at home right now, waiting in his basement to be worked on...if it had been in his car the morning before, the little chance of getting out of this he actually had would be gone.

"Oh, son of a..." Walter hissed, remembering the article the detective had shown him earlier. _MURDER SUSPECT'S HOME BURNED BY NIGHTFALL, ARSON SUSPECTED _flashed in the front of his mind like a neon sign, and he pictured the .45 automatic as a part of that fire...first the polished exterior would have burned. Then, when the fire reached the interior, the shells he kept it loaded with would have burst...and his old vinyl collection, too, damn it! He still had--or at least, _had _had--an original vinyl of the Ramones' first album, still factory-sealed. It had been his prized record...and now it was probably so much ash in the wind. Walter was suddenly very angry; angry at the police, angry at the residents of Pleasant River, and most of all, angry at that bastard Walter Sullivan...but not himself, he reminded himself. That _other _guy, the one who was all Godlike. He didn't want to get a complex, thinking negative thoughts about himself like that.

"Oh, shut the hell up," he told his mind, which politely refused. "You can't get a complex from stuff like that, anyway." He turned back towards the door of his cell, mad as hell and ready to stir up trouble.

So when he saw Douglas Cartland standing there like doom in a beige trenchcoat, he uttered a terrified scream and leapt back against the far wall of the cell.

"Miss me?" Douglas asked. His voice was cracked, as though he had been shouting a lot.

"With a face like that?" Walter shot back half-heartedly; the real reason he had jumped was because, for just a second, the detective had looked like the other Walter. And Walter didn't like that guy.

"Ha, ha," Douglas said dryly, and leaned on the bars. He looked very tired. "Listen, I got some business to take care of in a kind of far-off place. I just wanted to say one thing before I left."

"Hugs and kisses?" Walter jeered, rising his inflection near the end of the sentence.

"Shut up," Douglas said irritably, and for once, Walter felt compelled to obey him. He sat down and closed his mouth, looking at the detective with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. "You listening?" The detective asked.

"Yeah," Walter said.

"I just want to say that...well, I've done some thinking, and I'm..." He trailed off. Perhaps in hesitation?  
"You're...?"

"Quiet," Douglas said. He never made eye contact with Walter, as though he were embarrassed by what he was about to say. "Let's just say that I'm not entirely convinced that you're the only one behind this." He spat this all out in one breath, like it was a parasite that he needed desparately to get rid of. And he looked a little better after he said it.

Walter stared, unbelieving. Had he said that? "Are you saying...you think I'm innocent?" Walter stood up and faced the detective through the bars, all facades cast aside for the moment. Maybe it was a bluff, to get Walter to really show himself, but Walter was willing to take that chance--It wasn't like his chances were any better if he didn't, anyway.

"That's not it at all," Douglas said shortly. "I'm just saying that, after examining the situation from many angles, I've determined that you might...not be _as _guilty as I thought." He stopped, then took a deep breath, followed by a deeper sigh. Then he added under his breath: "It's just not possible."

"_What's _not possible?" Walter asked, absorbed. "What are you talking about?"  
Douglas looked up at Walter, then back at the floor. He seemed to be contemplating whether or not to tell Walter something. After a long pause, he finally spoke. "You know that guy that we caught ten years ago? The guy who got blamed for the first Sullivan Case?"

Walter nodded. He'd not only heard about it; he'd been mistaken for the guy so much that he'd almost started to believe that he might _be _him. Strangely, he could only remember bits and pieces of that time...but he didn't exactly want to, so that was okay.

"Well...it's probably suicide for my case for me to be telling you this, but...he's gone. Just up and gone, and nobody knows where he went."

Walter stared at the detective, eyes and lips sunken and sarcastic. "_That's _your big revelation? That's why you decided you think I might not be guilty?"  
"That's not what I said," Douglas repeated. "And you don't get it: The guy's dead. _Dead._ He should be six feet under the ground right now. You know where he is?"  
"Should I?" Walter asked. In light of recent events, it was not an entirely sarcastic question.

Douglas glared at him for the first time with real anger, and it scared Walter. This man had seen a lot in his lifetime, and Walter saw that experience reflected in that glare. It was sort of like being glared at by a version of the other Walter...and _that _was what really scared him.

Walter swallowed. Hard.

"His body. It's gone. The grave's empty. There's no prints, no traces, no fibers, no _nothing._ Somebody _must've_ stolen the body, but I just...can't see how. It's _impossible!_" Douglas' neck twitched in frustration, and he backed away from the cell. "I've never seen anything like this in my entire life."

Walter listened to Douglas' words...and a thought occured to him.

"Wait a second," he said to the detective.

"What?" Douglas responded, without turning around.

"You _have _seen something like that before, haven't you?" Walter asked. He said it with a tone that suggested he might attack the detective. "In that town? Silent Hill?"

Douglas whirled around, and rushed up close to the bars to face Walter. Douglas was almost a full inch taller than Walter, so when he stood completely buffed-up like he was standing now, he seemed almost like a giant by comparison. "What do you mean? What do you know?"

Walter smiled. It was working! The other Walter had been correct...yeah, like he'd really expected him not to be? "I know that you went to Silent Hill. And I know you saw something there. But I don't know what."

"How do you know that?!" Douglas asked, furious. Even at the height of his anger, Douglas spoke slowly, and in soft, almost confused tones. "Wait...did you have something to do with her?!"

Walter's smile faded. "With her? Who's 'her'?"

"Claudia. Vincent. Any of that crowd. You know them, don't you?"

Walter started shaking his head as soon as he heard the name 'Claudia'. "Look, Danny, all I know is that Claudia is the daughter of Leonard, who was like, the big cheese of the Order. The only person he was really afraid of was that other bitch, the old one that burned her daughter in that fire."

Douglas looked Walter in the eyes for a long time after he said that, almost like he was searching for something. Even Walter could see that the man had just made a big connection. "Dahlia?" Douglas asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah! That was it!" Walter pointed a finger at Douglas. "Dahlia. Dahlia Gippeto, or something like that."

"Gillespie," Douglas mumbled. So it _was_ true, then; Heather had been right. Not that it helped much in his current case; all it did was tie some old loose ends...and those loose ends were too old to matter anymore.

Or so he thought.

"Yeah, Gillespie," Walter said. "She was crazy. She was from that other part of the Order, that Holy Mother sect...man, they were a fucked-up bunch!" Walter slapped his knee and chuckled, as though he were remembering good times. They weren't good times, by any means...but back then, anything that could get you laughing had been like gold. Laughter and good cheer had been two things on which the Order had been very short. Walter thought that he would thank the other Walter for wiping out the cult, if and when they ever met again. Good ol' 21 Sacraments...

21 Sacraments? What the hell did that mean?  
"How do you know about...what I saw?" Douglas asked, snapping Walter out of his trance. "In Silent Hill? How did you find that out?"

Walter shrugged. "Lucky guess?"  
"That's too damned good for a guess," Douglas pressed. "You must have been tailing us."

Walter laughed. "_Tailing_ you? Guy, I didn't _know _you before yesterday morning!" He turned his head away, blinking twice. "I only know what I do because--" He paused.

"Because what?"

But Walter couldn't tell him how he knew, could he? The guy would think he was crazy. And even if he didn't, he would only have further reason to think him guilty--_Oh, no, officer, it wasn't me! It was the other guy, who looks, talks, and acts _exactly like_ me! Sure, we even have the same name--hell, even the same fingerprints!--but we're two totally different people, sir yes sir! Yeah, and I met him in an alternate reality, too! Wait...why does that white jacket have so many buckles on it?_ Yeah, that would go over _real _well with this guy. Mr. Logic, meet Mr. Fantasy. Shake hands? No? Oh, that's too bad.

"You'd better start talking," Douglas said. He was getting anxious. This guy knew something, something _big,_ and Douglas didn't know _how _he knew. That meant that Douglas had a major blind spot that he had been overlooking. What else did this guy know about him? Or worse, about Heather?

Douglas had a momentary vision of Walter Sullivan as no more than an obsessed paparrazzi who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time...maybe chasing the trail of Heather Mason, without her knowledge, only to wind up in a twisted otherworld. But that didn't explain why Walter hadn't tried to help them out, or even to seek help _from_ them. He quickly dismissed the idea.

Walter's face lit up all of a sudden. "Okay, Danny...I'll talk," he said. "But I have a condition. I want you to hear me out, first."

Douglas glared again, but this time there wasn't rage in it--just simple unease, and a bit of annoyance. "What?"

Walter sighed inside his head; maybe he had a chance, after all! "There's another person that I think may have played a part in the murders you're accusing me of."

Douglas' eyes lit up, and even though he tried to conceal that, Walter saw it.

"I was actually on my way to see this person before you arrested me. What you said about the body missing made me think, 'maybe this is the guy Danny here is looking for'!"

"Names, Walter," Douglas said, producing his pocket notebook. "Names, and any other information you have. Now."

"Ah, wait a moment," Walter said, putting a hand up to the bars in front of Douglas. "If I give you the name, you have to bring him here, _right away._ If he gets away, it'll be on you. You arrested me on my way to see him, so if he skips town today, then by the reflexive property, _you _let him get away--"

"Just tell me, Goddamnit!" Douglas snapped, almost raising his voice. Almost.

"Relax," Walter said, taking a step backward, as though Douglas might reach through the bars and seize him. Which was entirely possible, given his attitude at the moment. "He's not going anywhere real soon, at least I don't think. I was told by--" He paused, thought. "--a reliable source...that he would be going away shortly. He thinks he has business elsewhere, but..." he trailed off.

"What's his _name?_" Douglas said impatiently; he hated games.

"Hold your horses!" Walter said, but Douglas could see in his eyes that the game was up. Walter stepped right up to the bars, so close to Douglas' ear that they might have been lovers sharing some deep secret, and whispered two words into the detective's ear.

Douglas looked at Walter for a long time after that, not really sure what to make of it. "Are you sure that's the guy?"

"Yes," Walter said, rather calmly. "If you bring him here, I can prove it!"

Douglas' eyebrows furrowed. _There_ was the doubt Walter had expected. "You'd better not be pulling my leg, Sullivan."

Walter didn't say anything...just smiled and tilted his head, as if to say, _Why, oh why, would I do a thing like that?_

END OF CHAPTER 7


	8. The Detective's Call

**Chapter 8**

**The Detective's Call**

_"There is freedom within_

_There is freedom without_

_Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup_

_There's a battle ahead_

_Many battles are lost_

_But you'll never see the end of the road while you're traveling with me_

_Hey now, Hey now_

_Don't dream it's over_

_Hey now, hey now_

_When the world comes in_

_They come, they come_

_To build a wall between us_

_We know that they won't win.."_

Don't Dream It's Over, _Crowded House_

_(Unknown Album)_

**It's** a sad but true fact that guys like Henry Townshend seem to be very, very good at screwing themselves. Not in the literal sense, of course, but rather in the sense that they are very prone to trouble. Henry's only wish after surviving Walter's hellish otherworld was to be able to blend back into the shadows, as he had before the incident. But as he went about his daily business, trying not to sense something big and awful in the works--something so big and so awful that, at times, it seemed that the very air around him was conspiring against him--blending into the world around him and becoming the nothing he had once been became harder and harder...and harder.

If he hadn't chosen that particular moment to enter the Gunman, a little gun shop in the plaza just off of Arrold Street, he might have experienced a very different set of events later on...but he did, and so everything that happened after that ultimately _came _from that.

Henry had decided that he wanted something a little more powerful than the standard nine-millimeter model he currently owned--the _illegal _nine-millimeter model he currently owned. No, nine-millies wouldn't be enough this time, not if something happened. This time, Henry would settle for no less than a .45 automatic. Of course, he was completely unaware of the irony of this situation, since he had no possible way of knowing that Walter Sullivan--the Walter Sullivan who now sat less than ten blocks from Henry's very own apartment--had lost a handgun of the exact same make and model when his house had burned down the night before. Perhaps it was fate that intervened that day...

When Henry opened The Gunman's front door, Henry's eyes widened as he fought to keep back a torrent of disbelief. This place reminded him of that crazy gun-nut back in South Ashfield Heights, the one with all the plastic gun replicas...except these were all real. MP5s, M1s, P99s, .44 Magnums, a revolver that looked suspiciously like Richard Braintree's (it was probably the exact same model), and so much more...and they were all for sale.

"Help you?" A gruff, choppy voice asked from what seemed like a couple of rooms away. Henry jolted out of his state of awe, both afraid and strangely comforted to be in a room with this many deadly weapons, and switched his focus to the counter.

A man wearing a camouflage jacket had stepped out of the room behind the counter--Henry couldn't see into it, now that the man was blocking the way--and now stood by the cash-register. He had a short red buzzcut that, for some strange reason, made Henry think of Conan O'Brien and Boot Camp. Henry giggled a little at this thought, but the man seemed not to notice. Whatever was going on, he seemed to be in a hurry.

"Um," Henry began, glancing once more at the walls around him, which were lined with all different kinds of weapons. He eyed them with the respect one might give to the kind of spider that can bite through one's foot. Really, that wasn't too far off from what a gun was...was it? Except _these _spiders had no legs and only one fang, and they only _needed_ one fang. "I was thinking about um, maybe...buying a gun."

"You've come to the right place," the man, who was obviously a hunter of some kind, said. He was chewing on something, Henry realized, and that was why his voice sounded so choppy, even through his thick northern accent. He also seemed a tad frustrated with Henry. Probably thought he was a rookie. Hell, he was, but this guy didn't know that. Besides, Henry was a pretty good shot, now that he'd had some first-class otherworldly practice. "Whatcha lookin' for?"

Henry's eyes scanned the room nervously, unsure. He wasn't familiar with gun laws in this city at all; come to think of it, why had he bothered to come here at all? What was the point, really? There was probably a waiting period, or something, and Henry needed his weapon _now, _especially if he planned on doing what he was thinking of doing--

"Do you..._know _what you're looking for?" The hunter asked, sounding more annoyed than before. Now he _surely _thought he was dealing with a rookie; Henry knew that look from his earliest days of Photography class, back in high school. "'Cause if you don't, I got work to do, so--"

"No, wait," Henry said, his eyes locking on to a specific model hung on the far wall, "I know what I want." He approached the model, which was behind a sealed glass case, and read the print beneath it: _.45 Custom Magnum Revolver._ There were some other things written there, too, but Henry wasn't sure what any of them meant; it was all gun-speak, and therefore, it might as well have been greek.

The man behind the counter snorted a bit of laughter, then started towards Henry. He walked very, very slowly, as though it pained him to do so. Perhaps it did; he had a funny limp, Henry noticed, as well. "_That _beauty?" He shook his head, but not in negation--he shook it in comic disbelief. "You think you can handle something that big, rookie?"  
Henry glanced at the man, then back at the beautiful iron. "How do you know if I'm a rookie?"

The man replied instantly, without hesitation. "I see it in your face, kid. That, and the way you was lookin' at m'wares when you came in." He tapped the glass over the .45. "This here is the king of kings, at least in my opinion. .45'll take your arm off, if you hit it right." He mimed shooting Henry in the shoulder, and made sound effects with his mouth that, Henry supposed, were intended to sound like guts splattering. "It's a big toy, in other words. Big toys are for big boys, if you get me." He looked at Henry. "You _sure _you're ready to start with one of these things? I'd recommend something smaller to start with, say, maybe a nine-millie, or a BB gun." This seemed to be an honest criticism, not a derogatory remark; Henry picked up no such mean vibe from the gunman.

"I have a nine-millimeter," Henry said. "At home. I'm fairly good with it, and I think I'm ready to move on to something bigger." He pointed to the .45 Magnum Revolver. "I want that. How much is it?"  
The hunter--or gunman, or whatever he was called--put up a hand, as if to slow Henry down. "Whoa, there, rookie. I can't just sell you this baby on the spot. I've got to see some kind of permit first."

Henry's heart sank; he had gotten a hunting permit back in his college days, when his father had tried to teach him how to hunt (against Henry's wishes; Henry had always been an artist and a creator, not a hunter or a killer), but he was pretty sure that wouldn't count. He told the gunman this much, and the man eyed Henry warily.

"What?" Henry asked, suddenly very uncomfortable. "If it's illegal, I mean, I don't want to--"  
"Well, I'm sorry," the gunman said, "but I can't sell you a clunker like that without a permit." Then, as he approached the counter again: "Besides, you're probably not ready for something that big, anyway." And with that, he was gone, and Henry was left in the lobby of the gun shop, staring longingly at the weapon that he had already given up on obtaining.

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Walking down Arrold Street, Henry kept trying to talk himself out of the feeling of embarassment he'd received from the gun shop owner. It was a feeling that, Henry thought, a child must have when he tries to buy his favorite toy, only to come up a few dollars short and have to put the toy back on the shelf, while everyone else in line watched from the corners of their eyes. They would never look at you, no, because that would be rude; but whenever that had happened to Henry--and it hadn't happened a lot--he had always wished that they would stare at him; anything that wouldn't be said or thought at that moment would be said or thought later on...and Henry didn't want other people remembering him when he was that way, not in his moment of weakness...because that's what those moments were, moments of weakness, moments where all your defenses were down and everyone could see that you had put up what you had, and it hadn't been enough. That feeling was also the reason he'd stopped dating around his junior year in high-school; even though, had Henry ever actually worked up the courage to ask a girl on a date, he would have been accepted heartily, Henry had never done so; it was that fear of rejection--of putting up what you got, and finding out that you ain't got enough--that kept him from socializing with a lot of people. He had gone through much of his life feeling that way about people...and then he had met Eileen.

But that was another story. Right now, he was trying to shake off that dirty feeling of having been shot down. He wished to hell that he'd had a permit, so he could have that beautiful .45 magnum in his hands right now. Such a thing would have made him feel a hell of a lot safer in the event that he were sent to that other side again. Few creatures--earthly or not--could stand up to the full brunt of a .45 Magnum shell. The thought made him picture his measly nine-millimeter handgun, lying at home in the top drawer in the kitchenette, and he felt weak. Henry hated that feeling.

"_Watch out, asshole!_" Somebody called from outside of his head, and Henry jerked out of his trance. He fell backward onto the pavement, landing hard on his ass and--it felt like--spraining his tailbone. He cried out in surprise and pain, and tried to stand up. It took him one or two tries, but he finally managed.

He had just narrowly avoided being run over by a red Volkswagen Beetle. He must have walked right out into the red light during his trance. If not for the very New York attitude of the fellow in that car, Henry would likely have been jell-o by now. He looked up at the dank, gray sky and thanked whatever God lived there for putting assholes on the planet. He would later revoke those thanks, but he always did...and he always gave them back when he felt they were due.

Henry crossed the street, heading past the bakery on his way home.

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He decided to stop in the local Crispy Creme for a doughnut or two, and if the line had been shorter, that would probably have been all he'd left with. But since the line was longer, he had more time to consider what he wanted...and he finally decided on a dozen-box--half regular-glazed, and half chocolate-snail. He left with the box tucked tightly under one arm, periodically taking out from under his arm with great care and opening it to get another doughnut, and then replacing it under his arm. He walked right past the outer wall of the APD cell block--within twenty straight feet of Walter Sullivan himself--and never even got a chill.

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**When** the knock on her door came, Eileen was watching King of the Hill on Pox 10. The reason Eileen hadn't laughed once during this entire episode had nothing to do with the fact that it wasn't a very funny episode, but rather with the strange feeling she'd had ever since Henry had left. It was as though two great invisible, unfathomable eyes were keeping watch over her...and one had, for the moment, focused solely on Henry. It was a feeling of being watched by something she could barely comprehend. Eileen didn't like it one bit. Walter Sullivan, the man who now sat in a prison cell less than a mile from the very place where she now sat, would have sympathized.

"Hold on a minute," Eileen called. She leapt off of the couch, catching the bowl of popcorn in her lap just before it would have toppled over, spilling buttered popcorn all over the coffee table. When she was halfway across the room, the knock came again. "I said hold _on _a minute," she repeated, irritated. She reached the door and put her eye up to the peephole. She was expecting either Henry or the Superintendent--the only knock that sounded that urgent in the entire building belonged to the latter, or at least it had, until two days ago--so when she saw a middle-aged man wearing a trenchcoat and a little brown hat that, for some reason, made her think of Sherlock Holmes and Spaghetti Westerns at the same time, she was quite surprised.

"Ms. Galvin?" A low, raspy voice asked from the other side of the door. Its owner sounded oddly patient, in light of his urgent knocking. "Are you home?"  
"Yeah," Eileen confirmed for a third time. The man's hearing obviously wasn't well; even the Superintendent could hear Eileen through the thickness of the oak door, and he was starting to get on in years himself.

Eileen opened the door. "Can I help you?" she asked the man in the trenchcoat.

The man raised the object he held in his right hand--a badge. "Detective Douglas Cartland. I'm working with the Ashfield Police in connection with a few recent murder cases." He made sure Eileen had gotten a good look at the badge, and then replaced it in his coat. "I need to speak with Henry--you know, your next door neighbor--but he seems to be out. I asked the Superintendent, and he said you'd know better than he would."

Eileen pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. "Oh, well..." She hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "I'm really not sure _where _he is right now. He goes off a lot on his own without telling anyone."

"Oh," Douglas said, obviously let down. "Well, do you have any clue at all where he might have gone? Any guesses? It's kind of important. It's about a friend of his. The guy might be tied in with some murders that happened over in Silent Hill, and I--"

"Henry knows somebody who's involved with that?" Eileen broke in, suddenly interested. "But I've never seen him talking to anybody else, really. Who would that be?"

Douglas spoke slowly, and he sounded tired. He looked like he probably was. "I shouldn't mention any names. But I have reason to believe that Henry knows this person. If you happen to see him, will you call the APD and let me know? Like I said, it's _very _important."

"Sure," Eileen agreed, shrugging, "I guess. If you leave your number, that is." For some odd reason, she had had this feeling--just for a second, but it had been there--that this was just some creepy guy trying to get _her _phone number. But she disposed of the thought before it was even completely articulated--she wasn't _that_ hot, anyway, and never really had been. "What did you say your name was?"

"Cartland," he said, already reaching into his jacket--for a pen and paper, most likely. "Douglas Cartland. Here's my number--" he said, scrawling rapidly on the little pad of paper he now held in his hand. He tore off the front sheet and handed it to Eileen, who scanned it quickly and memorized the number. "Remember, it is imperative that you let Henry know _as soon as he gets back _that I need to speak with him. Call this number, and ask for me by name. Remember, Detective Douglas Cartland."

"I'll remember," she assured him. He nodded with approval, tilted his hat towards her in silent parting, and strode around the corner and out of sight. For such a burly guy, he sure could move gracefully. When he stood still, he appeared as though he might walk with a waddle, or maybe a bow-leg. But he had stood up straight and tall as he had rounded the corner, like a man who has gotten a true taste of life for the first time in a long, long time.

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**As** Douglas made his way down the staircase towards the lobby, he had time to think about the woman. Was she lying to protect Henry? Probably not; she had no reason to. Hell, she probably didn't know anything at all about the case beyond what the TV told her, just like every other soul in this misbegotten city. No, Henry had probably wandered off alone, just as she had said. A normal person might have taken that as a sign and called it a day right there. If he had done that, things might have turned out differently...but Douglas was not a quitter. All this meant to him was that he had more work to do--he hadn't gotten to be the top-ranking detective in the tri-state area for going home early, after all.

Ever since his wife had left him--this had been not too long before his son had been shot while robbing a bank in New Hampshire--Douglas had pretty much given up on life. He had relaxed a bit, and had started to become weak and weatherbeaten in his mannerisms. Even in the midst of everything that had happened back in Silent Hill, he hadn't really been afraid--why should he have been? That had been back when he'd thought that he really was finished on this planet, when he'd thought that he'd lived out his usefulness. That had been a time when he'd been pretty sure that the Fates had begun to tire of him, and were getting ready to kick him off of this mortal coil, probably because he had stopped living for what he'd been made for. But now...now that this Walter Sullivan case was starting to heat up once again, he thought he might just be getting back a bit of that old magic, a bit of the excitement that had once gone hand-in-hand with the hunt. Maybe going through hell in that town _had _done something for him.

It just might be that it had taught him to live life again.

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**Henry** did one more noteworthy thing before he started home that evening: he passed by the St. Jerome's Church of Christ, and stopped at the edge of the steeple, standing on the edge of the sidewalk, contemplating. He stared up at the doors of the church for a long, long time--several minutes--and finally decided to go inside. He started up the massive white steps, taking them one at a time--White, now there was a good color. Right now, the color white seemed awfully warm and inviting, despite the cold outside and the flakes of white snow that had begun to drift in the air. White seemed like a good color, a _home _color, and Henry liked that feeling a lot. He set the donuts on the arm of the stoop, on the top step, before he went inside. There was something about taking a box of donuts into the House of the Lord that made him feel a little awkward. Besides, they would probably be here when he came back.

He opened the wooden doors, using the little knocker-rings to pull them apart--they were unusually heavy for doors made of wood. He stepped inside, staring into the wide room with awe.

It was huge...the ceiling must have easily been fifty feet high, maybe even a hundred--Henry had never been that good at judging long distances. He observed the long pews, where worshippers probably sat each and every Sunday morning, listening to the Word of their God. The pews were unnaturally clean, which probably meant that this was the day on which they had been duly scrub-bucketed. Henry moved down the aisles one step at a time, taking in the wondrous scenery. It was easy to see how people could come here to worship a power that they believed was greater than themselves--the place looked like a throne room. In a spiritual sense, Henry guessed it was. Only _this _God was one that people worshipped, for the most part, with sanity and love, as opposed to the hate and fear inspired by the Order.

Henry brushed away this last thought, not wanting to taint the air in this place with bad thoughts. He didn't know what kind of powers had been in Silent Hill to begin with, but he was almost certain that negative energy was one way to contribute to that all-consuming darkness. Ever since he'd defeated Walter in mortal combat, he'd been afraid to even think too much about that place; it was as though mere pictures in his mind could summon it, like a demon from a spellbook.

"Well, hello there," a calm voice said from the far end of the room. Henry was startled, but he did not jump. There was nothing hostile in this place; deep down, some force seemed to be telling him that no harm would come to him, deep down in his subconscious...deeper than reflexes, deeper than thought...it was in the place where instincts ruled supreme.

Henry looked towards the sound, the location of which was difficult to discern due to the acoustics of the place, and saw a man in a black robe. Henry could just make out the black collar with the little white square thing on the front (Henry had always wondered what that thing was for)--the symbol of priesthood. He couldn't think of anything to say, not right off the top of his head.

The man seemed to take no offense to this. He crossed the altar from the door through which he had entered the room and started down the aisle toward Henry. Henry met him halfway, and the priest extended his hand.

"Hello, brother," the man said in a smooth, comfortable tone, holding his hand out before him as though he were offering Henry an invisible goblet. "My name is Father Denton. Steven Denton. May I ask yours, and what brings you to this humble place of worship on such a cold, lonely day?"

Henry met Steven's hand with his own, and gave it a half-hearted shake. "Henry. My name is Henry Townshend. Father, I..." he trailed off.

"Is something wrong, Henry?" Steven asked, and dropped Henry's hand gently. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Henry hesitated, pondering. He back up a step and took a seat on the bench nearest Steven. He nodded, pausing as if afraid to begin (he was). "Something has happened to me recently, and..." there was another of those pauses. "...I'm not really sure what it means." He waited a short moment, then nodded, as if deciding that it sounded right.

"Is that so?" Steven asked kindly, taking a seat on the edge of the pew across from Henry. He looked like a young man, probably not too much older than Henry himself (which struck Henry as odd, since Steven had said he was a Father in the priesthood). Even so, he his hair was a delightful shade of silver, and it hung down to his neck in almost perfectly straight lines. It reminded Henry, in an oddly pleasant way, of Walter Sullivan, only Walter's hair had been a bit longer. Maybe an inch or two, at best. Yet Henry felt strangely comfortable speaking to this man, even if his life experiences might barely be enough to rival Henry's own.

"Yes," Henry replied, rubbing the knee of his jeans anxiously. "You see, I...I think I was...I don't know the word..._chosen_ for something, you see..."

Steven nodded, his face keeping a constant expression of something between calm and understanding, as if he had heard it all before...but still gave a damn.

"It's like...it's sort of like it was, I guess, a wake-up call, you know?" Henry scratched his head slowly, nervously. "I still don't know if it was for real or not, but...it certainly _seemed_ real."

"Are you saying that you believe you've had an experience with the Lord?" Steven asked. His tone did not suggest that he would be displeased if Henry answered in the negative.

Henry snorted laughter, then quickly hushed. He didn't want to appear rude in front of this man; he liked him, at least as much as he _could _like a man he'd just met. Maybe it was the air in this place, or just something he was feeling today, or whatever, but he felt like he'd known this man all his life. "Not quite. More like an experience with the Devil." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small red book, barely the size of his splayed hand. On the label was printed "Crimson Tome," in white letters, and nothing else. The cover was inked an unmistakable shade of red. Henry opened the book, which he had kept with him almost constantly since his experience in Room 302, and read these words: "'The 21 Sacraments be not sacramental one whit. Those that be called the 21 Sacraments be naught but the 21 Heresies." He raised his eyes from the Tome and read the expression in the priest's eyes, which was one of mingled confusion and--still--calm.

"What does that mean?" Steven asked, genuinely curious.

"It means that once there was a baby," Henry began. "This baby, you see...he was abandoned by his mother and father. His mother wanted to keep him, but his father insisted that they couldn't afford to keep the baby. So he made the baby's mother leave him behind in this apartment room." Henry hung his head. "Well, a nice young man from another apartment heard the baby crying one day as he was passing this room, and he went inside to check--you see, the room was supposed to be empty.

"Well, he found a baby in that room. He called the hospital and reported the baby, but first he took its umbilical cord. He had lived in other countries back during World War II, and this was a tradition he had picked up from one of those countries--the parent keeps the baby's umbilical cord, and that is supposed to mean that the parent always has a part of their child with them. Since the baby had no parents, this man wanted to at least make this token gesture towards the baby. He couldn't afford to keep the baby, either. That's why he reported it to the hospital, and eventually gave it up to an orphanage in a nearby town.

"The baby grew up living in this orphanage. He made friends and some enemies, but most of them weren't _real _enemies--not the kind of person you would actually feel malice towards. The baby eventually found out that the nice orphanage was actually a front for this not-so-nice group of people called the Order. The Order wanted to use the orphanage to indoctrinate new followers, and they were using small children to promulgate their religion."

Steven listened to the story, enthralled, his eyes never leaving Henry's stern face.

"Well, there was this one ritual...it was called the 21 Sacraments. This baby--his friends called him Walter, even though he really didn't have a name--one of his older friends told him that, if he became a really good follower of God and completed the 21 Sacraments one day, he might be able to meet his mother again.

"But the catch was, the Order's bible didn't say that. Walter's friend had lied to him, you see--his friend only wanted him to complete the 21 Sacraments so that the God of his religion could be revived. He _really believed _that killing 21 people would bring God into the world."

Steven's eyes widened a little, and his mouth hung open while he gasped in shock, but he still never deviated his glance from Henry. Henry had the floor all to himself now.

"Well, Walter was convinced that killing these people would bring him to meet his mother. Well, he eventually found out he was wrong, and that killed him. Not actually, but it killed his _spirit._ His personality split in two: one half, the part that wanted to see his mother again at all costs but knew it was impossible...and the other half, which had become obsessed with killing these people. The latter half refused to believe that he had done all this work for nothing.

"So when he was captured and put in prison, Walter couldn't take it anymore--he jabbed a soup-spoon into his neck and killed himself. He took his own life."

Steven nodded slowly. "Is this what you meant? This man's...suicide? Is that what has been troubling you so?"

"Yes," Henry agreed, "but not all. There's more...this man, Walter...he came to see me earlier this week." Henry paused, waiting to see if Steven would flash him an awkward glance--in other words, show a sign of sanity. There was none. "He tried to kill me. I know how crazy it sounds, and I'm actually pretty sure it was all a dream...or at least, _like _a dream, if you know what I mean." He looked at the priest. "Of course you don't know what I mean," he told him, standing up. "You know what? I think this was probably a waste of your time and mine. I should go." He took no more than a single step.

"I don't think it's a waste at all," Steven said, and Henry slowed...stopped.

"What?"

"I mean, I think there's some truth to what you've told me." He stood up and approached Henry. "It seems to me that this, this dream..." he paused, searching for the right words. "...Maybe it has some meaning to it. Was that story--the one about the boy--part of your 'dream'?"

"No," Henry said disdainfully. "It's true. All of it." He turned around to face Steven. "And I killed him. Again."

Steven said nothing, but his face did not change. He had listened, in spite of the fact that he understood little of the story; what he _had _understood was that this man was not telling the story to Steven--this man was telling the story to _himself._

"Don't you have something to say? I killed him. You know...even though he was trying to kill me...even though he was trying to kill _her,_ I still keep remembering how I felt when I met him for the last time. He seemed so happy, so excited...like a little boy who's about to open a birthday present. Like he'd been waiting for that moment all his life." Henry turned away again, taking another step towards the door. "I remember thinking all of these hateful things towards him...yet, as soon as I heard him speak, I felt just a tiny bit of that hate die. I actually wondered, for just a split-second, if it might not be better to go ahead and let the guy have his way. Sure, he was trying to take my most valuable things--my life, and my soul--but I still can't shake the feeling that by killing him in my own defense, I've only set something worse into action."

Steven sighed. "Murder is often the cause of such feelings," he related. "It's human nature to feel compassion for your fellow man...even if he is your enemy. It's the concept upon which my religion was founded." He smiled. Henry couldn't see it, but he _felt _it, if that was possible. "I could see your face when you came in. You felt it, too, didn't you? The power of the White?"  
Henry nodded, but said nothing.

"There are things in this world, Henry, that we may never understand," Steven said, and stepped around Henry so that he stood before him. "Why a man would kill another man is, as far as I am concerned, on of those things. However, I am confident that you acted in the best way you could."

Henry's lips pursed, as though he were about to refute...but then he raised his head up a little bit. "You know...I've been thinking."

"About what?"  
"About all this," Henry went on. "About Walter, about me, about Eileen. And think I've decided."

Steven's warm expression wavered for the first time; he was unsure. "What have you decided?"

Henry managed to crack a little smile. "It's time for me to finish this business. I'm going to do what should have been done a long time ago." His mind was now scanning back to the red papers he'd received from Joseph, which he now kept in the scrapbook in his apartment. Along with the handgun, those were the only things which had ever proved that the otherworld had even existed.

"What do you mean?" Steven asked. Was that concern in his voice? Henry thought so.

Henry looked Steven in the eye, and what Steven saw there was cool, level-headed determination. A strange combination, and a strange fellow, Steven thought.

"Listen, Father," Henry said, brushing courteously past the priest, "thanks for talking to me, but I've got to run." He started towards the door...and then he stopped, turning back to the priest. "Father?" he asked.

"Yes?" Steven said, not moving.

"Could you, ah, cross me before I leave?" He flushed just a little, as though he had asked a girl at a party to do a particularly nasty favor. "I mean, if you don't want to, I can--"

"No," Steven said, "that's fine. Come here."

Henry obliged, and the man called Steven crossed Henry's chest and said some kind of prayer. He spoke in a low voice, so Henry couldn't make out what he said.

"Thanks," Henry said, and shook Steven's hand. "I don't know if it will do any good--I'm not really sure about anything anymore--but it's worth a try."

"Here," Steven said, and reached into his robe. Beneath it, Henry saw, he was wearing streetclothes: A black t-shirt and black jeans. This was a bit of a relief to Henry; it added some humanity to the nearly Godlike calm that enveloped the man.

Steven produced a silver cross bracelet from his pocket and handed it to Henry, who took it and glanced it over quickly. It was a bracelet of pure, shining silver, and the cross-shape which had been set into it reflected the light from the bulbs over Henry's and Steven's heads.

"I don't know what you plan to do...but if you ever have any doubts, just remember what this stands for." He tapped the silver cross.

"Thanks," Henry said, and started down the aisle. "Goodbye, Fa--"

"Please," Steven said, "just call me Steve."

"Okay. Thanks, Steve!" And with that, Henry approached the front door. Before he'd even made it halfway, his anxious pace had become a jog, and by the time he left the church, his jog had become a dash. He was sprinting full-speed ahead by the time he left the block.

And his doughnuts still lay on the church steeple, cold and forgotten in the evening snowfall.

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**While** Douglas was asking the man in the gun shop if he had seen Henry Townshend, Henry himself was closing the door of his apartment behind him, his heart already beating quickly. He hung left and down the hall towards his bedroom, slamming the door open as he passed through the threshold into the room where he must have awakened a hundred times during Walter's reign, a thousand years ago. He pulled the swivel-chair he'd bought earlier that week up to the desk on which his scrapbook lay, and flung it wide open. He flipped through the red diary pages, dated from some time in April to late July, until one caught his eye. Henry pulled it out of the stack, taking care not to crumple or tear it. His eyes scanned the dirty page:

_"Through the Ritual of the Holy Assumption, he built a world. _

_It exists in a space separate from the world of our Lord. _

_More accurately, it is within, yet without the Lord's world."_

He took that page and set it aside, starting a pile, and returned to the scrapbook. Leafing through, he didn't see anything else that seemed important...until his eyes wandered across the edge of this. Normally, when he wasn't thinking about anything in particular, this might not have caught his attention so easily. But today, when Walter and Silent Hill weighed heavy on his mind...this seemed like the most important thing he had ever seen in life.

_"I figured out the riddle behind the numbers. '01121' is actually '01/21.' In other words, 1 out of 21. So Walter was planning on killing 21 people...? But he never finished the job._

_He was convicted for the murders of Billy and Miriam Locane, the 7th and 8th victims. Afterwards, he committed suicide in his jail cell. The grisly mass murder of 10 people shocked the world and came to be known as the "Walter Sullivan Case."_

_There are two big puzzles here._

_The first is: What was the motive for the murders?_

_The second is: Why did he kill himself before completing his task?_

_Was he simply insane...?_

_May 2"_

Henry didn't know why, but this particular passage made him very uneasy. He knew it shouldn't have; Walter was dead many times over, dead by Henry's own hand on one of those occasions. That was all the proof Henry needed. But still...something about the words on the page, the way they had been written...they seemed to connote something deeper, too far below the surface for Henry to comprehend. Especially the part about Walter Sullivan killing himself. He never _had _figured out what that'd been about, had he?

Reading on, he found this:

_"It was four years ago that they discovered the body with "12/21" carved into it. Right away I had this terrible feeling and couldn't stop shaking. The victim had been murdered six months earlier, but Walter had been dead for seven years, having committed suicide three years before the murder. The police think it's a copycat crime and are calling it the Sullivan Case Round Two._

_But something about it bothered me..._

_May 14"_

Henry would have sympathized with Joseph, had he been in the same situation (which he had almost been, but unlike Joseph, he had actually had a fighting chance). He also would have sympathized with Herring's thoughts on the case ten years ago from this moment; Herring had been unwilling to express the idea that had formed in the back of his mind, which was that it hadn't been a copycat case at all...and then they had found Toby Archiboldt, and met with Walter in person. That had made up Herring's mind, at least on the inside; on the outside he was, even now, not completely willing to admit that Walter Sullivan had not died in prison...or that Walter _had _died in prison, and had come back, somehow.

"Joseph..." Henry whispered, not hearing himself. "Was there something else?"

Maybe this sheet would elaborate. It wasn't the next correctly-dated page, but it was the next page he had:

_"Walter Sullivan did kill himself. He died in his prison cell of blood loss after he stabbed himself in the neck with his spoon. His body was buried in a cemetary just outside his hometown of Silent Hill in an unmarked grave._

_After that, his name became famous all over the world and it looked like his string of mass murders was finished at 10 out of 21._

_But 3 years later, they found a corpse that had "12/21" carved into it._

_The corpse was from 6 months earlier._

_In other words, the person was killed two and a half years after Sullivan committed suicide. The MO was exactly the same as Sullivan's. Except for one thing. All of Sullivan's victims were found with their hearts cut out and their chest wounds sewn together expertly with thread. On the other hand, the "12/21" victim still had their heart._

_Naturally, the police think it's a copycat case and are proceeding on that basis. But they haven't made any progress and recently discovered victim number 13. This corpse also had their heart intact. The police still haven't even identified a suspect._

_I've got a working hypothesis. Very few people know the details of the original crimes and would be able to copy Sullivan's MO so precisely. First I'll head to Silent Hill...to the graveyard near that beautiful little lake. Maybe I'll find the answer there._

_June 11"_

Henry had taken the last two pages he'd read out of the scrapbook and placed them in the pile to the left of the book. He made one last effort to flip through the individual pages in the scrapbook, looking for more entries relating to the Sullivan case. He found one final entry, and it chilled him to the bone, even though all of the things about which it spoke were said and done, never to happen again:

_The weather that day was very strange. Even though I avoided the earlier storm, there was still a thick fog clinging to everything. Fortunately, that allowed me to avoid being seen and get right to work._

_The police are still stubbornly acting as if it's just a copycat case. So I figured things probably hadn't been touched here. But I was wrong. I should have come sooner. The cemetery was in such bad condition that it was almost sad. The storm must have raised the sea level. Anyway, that's how it was when I found Walter Sullivan's grave._

At this point, a few more word fragments were legible--among them, _alte, gra, no, and tha--_but after that, it was completely illegible. He turned it over, making sure not to miss anything, but there was nothing else on the other side. He reached over to file that in the stack to the left of the scrapbook...

...and stopped.

Wait a moment.

Hadn't there been more?

"Yeah," Henry said aloud. "I'm pretty sure..." he scanned the bottom of the "June 11" page on the back, where a red substance that might have been blood was splattered all over the page in what might have once been thick goblets. He could make out a couple of nonsensical fragments--_ill, ock, ave, op, 11/, _among others--and a couple of words, but not enough to piece together a meaning. Yes...he was almost certain that there had been more. It had almost certainly not been important...but the facts that a) the information wasn't there, and b) Henry didn't remember what it _had _been, made him very uncomfortable.

Henry sighed, shaking his head. _Worry about what you can control, _he had read somewhere...and he had stuck by that motto for very much of his life. He recited it now in his head, hoping that it would calm him down. It did.

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**Douglas** had unknowingly taken the exact same route through town that Henry had after leaving the gunshop. This wouldn't have surprised him; he would have attributed it to his old cop's instinct. All the same, he passed by the church where Henry had spoken to the man named Steve just a few hours earlier, not even giving it a second glance as he passed by. He went down the sidewalk towards the end of the road, where his car had been parked at the corner.

He drove down Arrold Street, stopping and waiting for the light at each intersection to change--another thing Douglas seemed to be able to do a lot was catch red lights. It only took him ten minutes to see the cafe, and when he did, he slowed down and pulled onto the side of the road towards it.

It was called _The Lamb,_ and it was a small cafe like the kind you always saw in those New York-themed paintings, the ones that looked like they might belong in a 40's or 50's detective movie--the same place, ironically, that most people placed Douglas when they first saw him in his detective getup. He pulled up to the curb and parked, dropping the car into neutral and turning it off. When he got out of the car from the driver's side, crossing the sidewalk to the eatery's front doors, he looked up at the sign. The "L" on the sign was old and decrepit, ready to fall off from constant weatherbeaten usage. The rest of the letters were powered by a flourescenet white lightbulb; the L was the only dark letter. Douglas shifted the collar of his coat with both hands and went inside.

The first thing he noticed that had changed about this place was the chime that had been placed above the door. That was certainly strange; did roadside cafes normally have chimes over the door? He knew that little convenient stores did, but he wasn't sure he'd ever seen that in a restaurant. Maybe he had, but he didn't remember.

Across the far wall was a long bar that ran three-fourths the length of the room. Bar stools were built into the floor at regular intervals--about a foot or two apart--all down the bar, and a middle-aged woman worked the counter with a haggard smile on her face. Two men sat at the bar, and both appeared to be truckers. One sat all the way to the right, and the other sat about halfway down the left side. Both wore jeans and flannel T-shirts. Douglas took a seat, symetrically, between the two, and leaned over the counter, putting his elbows on the table. The way his hat tipped down over his forehead as he did this completed the image of a 40's/50's detective coming into a bar from the same era; he might have just walked out of a movie screen. Nobody else in the bar seemed to notice; this made it seem more natural.

"Help you?" The woman from behind the bar--Katherine, her nametag read--asked him in passing. She had a faint New York accent that made Douglas aware of the painting-like quality of this situation, and he voiced a gruff laugh. Katherine turned her head halfway as she poured some coffee on the back of the bar. "Might I ask what's so funny?"  
Douglas smiled, looking around slowly. "Oh, I was just thinking...this place looks just like the bar in that painting."

Katherine brought the cup of coffee to the man on Douglas' right, then returned to Douglas. "What painting would that be?"

Douglas' brow furrowed. "I'm not sure what it was called," he said. "You know, that one where you're looking in the window--" he made a square shape in the air with the thumb and forefinger of each hand, like a picture frame or a TV. "--like this, and you see this guy serving a couple of customers--he's got like, one of those white paper hats you used to see all the time--and there's this guy in the center of the painting, he looks like a detective or something, and he's sitting next to this lady..."

Katherine's lips parted, her mouth forming a small 'O'. "Oh, I think I know which one you mean," she said. "Damn, I can't remember what it's called, either!"

Douglas voiced a jolly chuckle that reminded Katherine of Santa Claus. "It's no big deal anyway. I just like old-time places like these. Going to one of these roadside joints is like getting back a taste of my younger years."

"I suppose you're a detective?" Katherine asked, placing the palms of her hands on the counter in an inverted 'V' shape.

"How'd you know?"

"You're in the middle of the painting," she said, and motioned with one finger to his hat. "I figured that's what made you think of it. Anyway, what'll it be, Mr--?"  
"Cartland," he said, leaning back comfortably. There was no back to the stool, so he couldn't lean very far. "Douglas Cartland."

This time, Katherine's brow creased. "Cartland? Wait...that name seems familiar. Have you been in here lately?"

Douglas shook his head. "No, I haven't been here in a long, long time." He looked over into the corner on the far right of the room, the one made by the wall to his right and the wall into which the front door had been set. An almost sad expression crossed his face, as though he were remembering something dear.

"Oh," Katherine said, and shrugged. "I've been working here for a long time. Maybe I was--?"  
Douglas shrugged. "You might have been." His eyes stayed in that corner for a long, long time, and he seemed to be meditating over it. "You know, that right there--" he pointed to the booth in that corner. "--is the place where I met my wife?"

Katherine's eyes widened a little. "Oh, really? How long have you been married?" From the look on her face, she seemed to be surprised that anybody could get something positive out of this run-down place. That didn't really make sense, though, considering that she appeared to really like working here. Last time he had been here, he was pretty sure that a man had served him and Serena...but Katherine might be that man's daughter, or sister, or wife. It was hard to tell; the man had been a little younger than Douglas himself had been back then, so he would probably be around Douglas' age about now...and this woman appeared to be just a few years behind him. She was just the right age so that Douglas was unable to decide her relationship to the man who had served him. Fred, that man's name had been.

Douglas' head lowered, and he looked at the counter. "We aren't married anymore," he said softly. "She left seven years ago."

Katherine sighed. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be," Douglas replied, trying to sound light-hearted.

"Was it another man?"  
"No," Douglas affirmed. "It was this one," he said, and pointed to himself. "He couldn't--or rather, wouldn't--support his family. He just sat around the house all the time, drinking and bitching and moaning, until his wife got sick of taking his shit and walked out on him. And not too long after that, this guy's son got sick of having to work to support his old man...he went up to New Hampshire and got his ass shot robbing a bank." Douglas was speaking very slowly now. "I guess I just came here for a taste of how life was before I screwed it up."

Katherine said nothing for a long time. Then: "That's quite a story. Kind of sad, too. You could do a novel, maybe. Make a nice buck."

Douglas laughed cynically. "I'm no writer, Katherine," he said with feigned good cheer. "I'm a hunter, a follower, a rulemonger. That's what I was born to do, I think. It just took me a few years too long to realize it." He smacked the palms of his hands onto the counter. "Just a beer would be fine," he told her. "I don't normally drink on the job, but it's not like I'm binging, or anything."

"Brand?"

"Miller. Lite."

Katherine dipped under the bar and came back with a bottle of Miller Lite and a tall glass, filled up the latter with the former, and disappeared under the counter again. When she came up, the bottle, too, had disappeared. "That's a buck ten."

Douglas' eyes widened. "That's it? Damn, that's gonna be the cheapest beer I've drunk in a long time," he remarked, sipping on the beer. It was crisp, clear, and refreshing, moreso than he had expected. "Well, you won't hear me complain." He took out his wallet, dipped one hand in it, and came out with a dollar and a quarter. "Keep the change," he said, tossing it on the counter.

"Thanks," Katherine said, and made the money disappear. "You must have lots of interesting stories to tell, being a detective and all." She produced a rag and began to wipe the counter. Douglas thought it was more of a nervous gesture--the counter was spotless, and didn't seem to need wiping down. Shrugging, Douglas downed half of his drink.

"You'd think so," he said. "And a month--hell, a week--ago, I would have told you that was wrong. But just a few days ago..." He shook his head, remembering his time in Silent Hill with Heather Mason. "_That's _something you could write a book about. Maybe one day, I'll sell the story to somebody?" The latter came out sounding more like a smartass comment.

"What happened?" Katherine asked him. "Sounds interesting."

"It is, sort of," Douglas agreed. "But it's kind of a long story. Maybe I'll tell you if I come by here again." He sipped beer from the glass. "You know, for some reason, this line from an old song just occured to me:

_'I talk to you for an hour_

_In the bar of a smalltown hotel...'"_

Douglas smiled, downing the last of his beer.

"Crowded House," Katherine said.

"What?"  
"Crowded House. The band. They're that Australian band, I think. They've got a few good songs. I remember that one, but I can't remember for the life of me what it's called."

Douglas continued to grin at Katherine. If he had met her some years ago, maybe they could have courted...but not now, not at this point in their lives. Douglas had screwed things up the first time around, and he wasn't sure if he wanted--hell, even _deserved--_a second chance.

"I suppose you'll be movin' on, now," Katherine said dismally, eyeing Douglas' empty glass.

Douglas shrugged. "I don't know...maybe I'll stick around for just a few." He thought for a moment of telling her the story of his experience and Silent Hill, and wondered if she would believe him. He also wondered if she would think him crazy.

Douglas ordered another beer, and Katherine obliged. "Here you go," she said, pouring a little more into his glass than she had the first time. Whether it was conscious or not, Douglas was pretty sure that meant she was growing on him.

"Say," Douglas said, "you want to hear a strange story?"  
"Sure," Katherine replied. "Why not? Complete the image."

"Huh?"  
"The image, you know? Remember, the painting?" She made the square with her fingers. "You know, hardened detective goes to a bar, orders a tall one and tells a story. It's just like the beginning of a 40's detective movie."

Douglas grinned thoughtfully, remembering the first time he'd seen one of those movies. He had been 14, and even then, he'd known that he wanted to be a detective. "I suppose it is," he added, and sipped on his second beer.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"This is the story of a guy who was ready to move on," he began. "You see, this guy...he was hired by this young woman to find her childhood friend. This woman believed that her friend had been abducted as a child. Well, the man tracked her friend down and met up with her in a shopping mall.

"As it turned out, the woman's friend had no idea who she was. All she knew was that there was something more to the woman than the man had originally expected. So, after the man found the woman's friend--who was a 17-year old girl, not a 24-year old woman, as the man had been told--he went to the front of the mall and sat down for a rest.

"While he was sitting there, he must have fallen asleep or something...there was a short blank period in his memory later, like he had fallen asleep and dreamed, and could only remember part of his dream. He had an awful dream about another place, where blood and rust covered the walls, and strange, horrible things could be heard in the distance.

"At first, the man thought he was going crazy. But then he woke up from this dream. There was a bright flash at the end of his dream, and then he awakened in the mall again. 'So it was a dream,' he thought...and then there was the 17-year old kid.

"The mall was empty except for the two of them.

"Well, the man offered to help her out, but the girl was very willful. She insisted on taking the subway home. And when the man tried to ask her about the monsters--he had this feeling that his dream had been more than a dream--the girl avoided the question.

"So the detective decided to drive to the girl's home and meet her there. He drove through town, but he didn't see a single person on the way to the girl's house.

"When he got there, he found the girl's father. He was dead, stabbed in the chest with a big, sharp, probably metallic object. He saw bloody footprints leading over towards the window that slid open on the staircase that lead to the rooftop. Hearing gunshots, he started towards the door...and that's when the girl came down the steps.

"The man's first thought was that the girl had killed her father. But then he saw the look on her face, and immediately knew otherwise. She had found him this way, too. She told the man to get lost. The man agreed to...but that made the girl want him to stay. So they moved her father's body into the bedroom and covered it with a sheet. It was the closest thing to a proper burial that they would be able to give the man, because there was nobody left in the entire city. Maybe even not in the entire world.

"The girl insisted that it was this woman, the one who had hired the man in the first place, who had murdered her father. That woman's name was Claudia.

"The man offered to drive her to Silent Hill--where this Claudia was supposed to be--and she agreed, reluctantly. They left...but while she was inside, and he was bringing the car around back...a man named Vincent approached the man who had found the girl's father. Vincent gave the man a map of Silent Hill and told him where to go when he got there...like he had it all planned out. The man thought Vincent was an okay guy, though; in his old age, he had dropped his guard, becoming too trusting of those around him. If he had thought to ask Vincent just a couple of questions then, then things would have gone much cleaner and much smoother.

"When they got to Silent Hill, the girl and the man went their separate ways for awhile. The girl went to the hospital, where the person Vincent wanted them to see was supposed to be. The man went to this other man's--Leonard's--house, in case he didn't turn up at the hospital. He didn't find anything useful there, besides a bible from some cult and some suspicious-looking tools, but they weren't incriminating tools--just a bowl, some sort of handsaw, and a weird thing he didn't recognize. But he _did _get a very strange feeling while he was there. It was just like the feeling he'd gotten back at the mall. He had a flash of that other place again, with blood and rust and things in the dark corners...but this time, it looked like a hospital. He still didn't understand what it meant, but he knew right then that the girl was in serious danger. He ran back to the hotel, expecting to find the girl...

"...But instead, he found the man, Vincent. Vincent told him that the girl had said to go to a church on the other side of the lake. Vincent gave the man directions and sent him on his way. He seemed to be in a hurry, though, and the man thought that was suspicious...but he didn't have time to think about it then. He knew--somehow, he knew--that he would be seeing the girl again soon, so he left for the church.

"That was when he realized what that other place had been: something, or someone, had been trying to warn him. It was another world, you see--when the man went through the amusement park to reach the church, the world around him _changed--_it became that other world from his dream. It was a horrible place; the ground was filthy metal, and beneath it was a bottomless chasm. The man thought that hell might just be under that ground...but he tried not to think about it too much.

"Just before he reached the church, the man encountered Claudia, the one for whom they had been searching. He raised his gun to her...and then, something happened.

"Before the man knew what had hit him, he had a broken leg...and Claudia was nowhere to be seen.

"Then the girl came. She offered to call an ambulance--a stupid thing, really, considering their situation. The man told her he didn't think one would come. She decided to go after Claudia herself, and that she would come back 'when it was all over.' Well, she did...but she wasn't the same person.

"For a day or two, she seemed okay...the man took her into his home, and there was talk of him adopting her, although she was 17 and would be old enough to move out on her own before too long...but then the breakdowns had started. The girl had started to have strange, violent fits--she would come home from her outings one day, seeming a little depressed, and the man would try to talk to her, but she would refuse. Soon, the man started seeing marks on the backs of her hands, and he noticed that her pocketknife was always lying on her bedside table. He suggested that they see a psychiatrist.

"The girl wanted to tell the police that her father had been murdered. The man told her it was pointless--that Claudia was dead, and there was nothing the cops could do--but she insisted, all the same. She reasoned that sooner or later, somebody would find her father's body, and when they did, they would ask questions...questions that neither the man nor the girl could give the right answers to. Because the people wouldn't know how to believe them.

"So the girl reported her father's murder...and when she was asked, she gave the entire story you just heard. She was immediately suspect, and before things had progressed too much further, the girl was in a mental instititution.

"She had asked the man to confirm her story, but the man was a coward. He had ignored her pleas, turning his head away as the men in the white coats took her away. He had betrayed her, you see, just like he had betrayed his wife and son before him. He had seen the girl as a chance to redeem himself, a sort of test...and he had failed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Katherine stood there for a long, long time, perfectly silent. The other two customers had left some time ago, having finished their evening beer and peanut 'dinners,' and returning from whence they had come. She looked at Douglas...looked at the floor...and back at Douglas.

"Well, you were right about one thing," she said at last. Douglas had been waiting for her reply; this was where she would call him crazy, if she had any intention to.

"What's that?" He asked her.

"You _could _write a pretty damn good book about that," she said, and grinned. "The man is you?"

Douglas shrugged. "The moral of this story...is always stick up for your friends. Even if you can't right away...you always have to come back for them."

"Are you going back for her?" Katherine asked, leaning against the back of the bar.

Douglas hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. It's taken some thought, but I think I will." He pushed his glass across the counter, having emptied it long before. "I'm probably damned, but...I can still do some good before I get knocked off, wouldn't you say?"  
Katherine thought about asking this man to take her home tonight...but then she figured that he would say no. He seemed like that kind of guy. She would have sympathized with Douglas' wife, on the night they had met some thirty years ago.

Douglas stood up, stretched and cracked his knuckles, and tipped his hat at the waitress. He took out his wallet and gave her a twenty-dollar tip. "Thanks," he told her, and walked out the door, fetching a short song from the chime over its glass frame. She saw him get into a brown four-door sedan and start it up, then drive off into the night. She watched his car rise over a hill in the distance...and then it was gone. _He _was gone.

She wasn't sure for what he had thanked her, but looking at the twenty-dollar tip, she supposed that it probably had something to do with the story he'd told. She put it in her pocket and put away Douglas' glass, making sure to place it with the dirty dishes and not the clean ones. Randy would come in the morning and wash the dishes, and he was very strict about his piles.

Katherine didn't know the name Cartland, but her brother, Fred, had. He had told her about a man who had come into the Lamb one morning--a cop, this man had been--and had sat down in the far corner by a young woman who was a regular customer. They had gotten to talking, and had left together. One year later, the man and woman had come back and eaten there again for the anniversary of the day they had met, and they had told Fred that they were getting married. That man's name had been Cartland. Katherine had been pretty sure she'd known the name, but from where she hadn't been sure...she hadn't been able to put her finger on it until right before he'd left, and by then, he'd gained the air of a man who has many a thing to do before the day is through, and so she'd let it slide.

It was the first time--and the last time--she ever saw Douglas Cartland.

END OF CHAPTER 8


	9. Ages of Walter

**Chapter 9**

**Ages of Walter**

_"Ages of you_

_Ages of you_

_Ages of you..."_

Ages of You, _REM_

_(Dead Letter Office)_

_He was in the Room again, the Room where he had first awakened. It was dark, and corroded...the voices of a thousand tortured souls cried out to him in their torn voices, heavy with the weight of their sins. He wanted to help them, but he knew that he couldn't. In a sense, he had brought them here...he, or the architect of the strange things behind this place. Where had it come from? Who had created it? What _was _it? All the questions spun through his mind, yet he held the answers to none of them. He stared down the blood-splattered, rust-caked hallway, unable to see what lay in the darkness beyond...and afraid._

_He looked to his right. There was the door to safety...but it was shut forever, by his own foolish hand. He had done that simply by coming here, of course--it had been waiting for him the whole time. That stupid man, and the thing that had chased him--they had chased _him _here, but in the end it made no difference--what was, was, and that was all it was._

_"And yet all is well," he said aloud, against the cries of those tortured voices. "All is well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well," he said, and started to walk down the hall. It was a prayer he had learned as a youth, a prayer meant to ward off not the spirits of the Other World, but rather the spirit that haunted him most: The spirit of self-doubt. "All is well," he repeated, walking into the shadow of the valley of death. He reached the gap at the end of the hall, the jagged blackness that marked the end of the hallway. A door to his left and a door to his right...he looked right._

_This door read 'The Mother.'_

_He looked to the left._

_This door read 'The Receiver.'_

_"They can't help me," he said, and the words became true as they left his mouth--if they hadn't already been. "Not now. Not after this." He took a long, hard look into the blackness which preceded him, and tried to still the angry beat of his traitor heart. The air was so heavy in there; he could feel it even out here. He had lost his coat some time ago, so he wasn't concerned with the baking heat which emanated from the hole...except for the thought, deep in the back reaches of his subconscious, that this place might be hell._

_He noticed one more thing, on the wall to either side of the jagged hole: The graffito '19' had been haphazardly sprayed to the left of the hole. To the right, the number '72.' What did _that _mean? He had no idea; even if they had meant something before, it was too late to know now. He had seen it somewhere before--perhaps in the Holy Scriptures--but he didn't think about that now. _Couldn't _think about that now. He had more important things to tend to. If he didn't stop it now, it would come back and take him later. He had to put a stop to this...he had to do it _now.

_He stepped forward into the blackness, closing his eyes and bracing himself for the hellish world that he knew lay beyond._

_There was no hell, though...just a beaten, wooden storage room. A shelf on his immediate left, and a broken tray before him. They meant nothing, and he passed them without sparing a second glance. He knew what he had come for; he knew it when he saw it._

_It was a man. A man, hanging from a cross made of bloody mesh and wire. A few strange feathers stuck out of the homemade crucifix above the hung man's shoulders, as though he had planned to fly away, maybe to Heaven. He knew that the man had done just that. Except Heaven hadn't been what he'd thought it would be. Had he been driven insane by what he discovered there? He thought that was possible. Likely, in fact._

_He reached out and touched the cheek of the hung man. As soon as he did, he was filled with a sense of sorrow...and all at once, he knew that this was how the man in the coat had lived. This was what he'd felt, and this was what had eventually driven him mad. Perhaps there was more, but this was certainly enough. How had he been able to stand it?_

_The easy answer occured to him: He hadn't. He had killed himself, and he had been brought up here. But that was impossible. He was dead...wasn't he?  
"_I'm_ not dead," he said to the man hanging from the crucifix, suddenly very afraid. Of _course _he wasn't dead. But this man...this body...this _thing_...was trying to tell him something. "What are you trying to say?" He asked the thing on the cross._

_He heard a tight, leathery creak, and almost screamed in terror when he realized that the sound belonged to the tendons of the man on the crucifix. His neck was creaking, because his _head was turning._ Dear sweet Jesus, his head was turning._

_"You..." it said to him, its eyes opening, tearing the lids apart at the seams at which they had been sewn shut by some twisted means. There was another dry, leathery creaking noise, followed by a metallic warbling noise--like that of a saw being shaken--that was the sound of the man's arms tearing themselves loose from the metal wire and mesh. His bare feet began to struggle against their bindings, and dry, congealed blood began to run slowly from the open wounds on his feet--11/21, they read--in thick, dry clots. How deep had he cut himself?_

_"Who are you?!" He asked the thing, backing up, but there was nowhere to go; the storage room was gone. Now he was on the roof of some strange building; it was pitch-black out in the darkness; the only illumination was from the pocket flashlight he held in his chest pocket, and all of a sudden, he wished that he couldn't see what he was seeing._

_The thing had come off of the cross completely, and it looked wrong. Just _wrong._ He had wanted to birth a God...but this wasn't a God. This was something from a place so deep that all but the greatest demons in hell would shake in terror in its presence. This was something far beyond the darkest reaches of Hell. It was impossible...and yet, here it was._

_Walter Sullivan stood before him, but he was not well. He stood hunched over, sickly, like an elderly man who had somehow found the strength to crawl off of his deathbed; his every movement was a stubborn refusal of death. He moved with sickening speed, he was so _fast, _that was _impossible_, look at the way he was running! That was just..._

_He couldn't look any more...yet he was afraid to turn off his flashlight, for fear of allowing his mind to take over. He threw his hands up in front of his defenseless face, knowing that it wouldn't help but unable to do anything else--his gun was gone, and had been for a long time--and as he braced for his demise, the death that wouldn't actually be a death, he heard a sinister cackle slice through the darkness, sharp as an icicle at its finest point._

_"Nothing truly dies here," the voice said, and laughed again. He took his hands down from his face, forcing himself to behold the twisted shape before him...but it had become something very, very different._

_A man now stood before him, a dark man. He wore a green jacket, with a belt around the waist that could have been cinched but wasn't, and a pair of dark blue jeans. He had a visible scar just below his left eye, and a wistful look stretched across his long face._

_"Who...who are you?" He asked this man. Whoever it was, it wasn't Walter...not anymore._

_"Don't come," the man in the green jacket said, holding up one hand, the international sign for _stop._ "There's only pain here."_

_"Come where?" He said back, his feet still frozen from his look at Walter. "To this place? I'm already here!"_

_"Don't come," the figure repeated. His hand remained outstretched. "You'll regret it. The Mother deserves to die. Just leave her be--even if they get her, they won't be able to do anything without the Receiver. They are like flipsides of the coin--you need both to flip it."_

_"What are you talking about?" He asked the man, and in his confusion and terror he almost stepped forward to shake the man...but thought better of it. "Whose Mother? What kind of Receiver?" For some reason, an image of a radio had been conjured in his mind._

_"Just don't," the figure implored, still holding out his arms in that warding gesture that, he saw, wasn't a gesture of warding at all but rather one of pleading. "This is the last cycle. If the Mother dies, then it must start over to finish...but if the Receiver dies, then all is lost. If the Receiver dies..." the man stepped towards him, outstretching his arms, apparently meaning to grab him by the shoulders. He backed away, but the man wouldn't let him go; he grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard. "If the Receiver dies, then it won't _need _to start over!"_

_"What do you mean!? What do you want from me?!"_

_"Just _stay away,_" the figure warned._

_Suddenly, he could bear the fear and confusion no longer; he collapsed involuntarily, smashing his head on the hard stone floor-- _

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Walter** awoke with a start, lying half-on and half-off of his bench. He had fallen off of it in the midst of his nightmare, and he'd bumped his head on the hard floor. It was bleeding, but only a little bit. He wiped the trickle on his forehead with one short white sleeve and climbed to his feet, snatching his jacket up from the corner of the room. He sat down on the bench, shivering, as he slid his coat back on.

Damn, it was getting cold in here. It had been hot as hell in here yesterday; why was it so cold, all of a sudden?

Walter didn't know about that, but of one thing he was suddenly very, honestly sure: this was going to be his last day in this misbegotten den of criminals.

He was getting out tonight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Steven** Denton sat behind his desk in the Rectory of St. Jerome's Church in South Ashfield, staring out the window across the room and sipping on a bottle of whiskey. The alcoholic beverage was stored in a rectangular tin, like the kind you always used to see in those detective movies--the kind the hero would always whip out just before a stressful scene and take a swig from--and was marked with three x's, in permanent black ink. The Father did this more for comic effect than for anything; he was known among the Parish for his more crude sense of humor (which he hid very, very well during the Sunday ceremonies; he wasn't mean-spirited, not exactly, but he did take a certain joy in quashing the horrible rumors started by his fellow priests, in watching their reputations suffer damage from the unreliable information they so often presented as fact), and for this reason he was considered largely unorthodox by his peers. Steven, however, preferred to think of it as 'originality.' The Bible, Steven thought, wasn't quite as tight-assed as people made it out to be; he was a good person (for the most part), he did his part in society, he'd never raped a kid before (and never would), he paid his taxes every month, and he occasionally had a drinking binge. To Steven, this was seen as a sort of 'fair trade.'

Taking another swig, Steven marvelled at the snow falling outside his office window. Here it was, in the middle of Spring, and _snow! _Could you believe it? Snow, in the middle of April! Steven laughed aloud, unable to conceal the humor he felt towards this. Normally he might have tried harder--he didn't want to be heard speaking to himself and laughing at what others perceived to be nothing; he didn't need any more rumors being spread about him, as fun as they might be to prove inaccurate--but tonight, he was completely alone in the Rectory. The bottle in his hand was proof of this--none of his peers knew he had so much as ever taken a sip of alcohol, much less that he was a recovering alcoholic; in this community, you didn't let such things slip without losing valuable credit with the people, and like a politician, reputation was half of Steven's job--at least, he felt so.

He walked--rather, stumbled--in a half-drunken stupor over to the window, and pressed one hand against it. The glass was cool, but not very cold. It should have been colder on a night like this, especially since snow was falling. He might not have paid much attention in Earth Science back in high school, but he was still pretty sure that it had to be thirty-two degrees or lower for snow to fall. So why wasn't the glass cold?

"Because it's _hot,_" he whispered aloud, and suddenly burst into giggles. Yep, he was drunk again. But really, who gave a damn? The other members of the congregation probably wouldn't be back for another couple of days--some kind of religious thing someplace--and so he could drink a keg, smoke a bowl, snort a rock, get laid, pass out on the carpet in his own vomit, wake up the next day, clean it all up and say a prayer or two, all before they returned, and they wouldn't know a thing. So he had chosen to indulge himself on this night in a series of very small drinks...seventy-two very small drinks, that was.

Thinking this, Steven poured another shot into the tiny glass on his desk. He downed it quickly, in one fell swoop--well, it wasn't exactly a _fell _swoop, since he almost dropped it twice in trying to reach his mouth with it, but it was close enough for Steven--and poured another. This one he held back on for the moment.

For some reason, a strange line had just occured to him.

_That would be the kettle calling the pot black._

What the hell did that mean? Steven didn't know; he'd heard the axiom used in a movie or two, but never in a real-life conversation. He wasn't even entirely sure what it meant, although he had a few decent guesses.

"Who's callin' _who _black?" Steven asked the empty room, and laughed again. The comment had no meaning; he was just so drunk, the sound of every word coming out of his mouth was the highest extent of humor. It was like every word was an episode of Conan O'Brien.

This thought conjured a picture of Conan in Steven's mind--the big, white forehead, the giant red comic splotch of paint that served as hair, the way said splotch wiggled and danced when the man moved--and he couldn't help but begin another fit of hysterical giggles. He dropped the bottle onto the carpet, and the last half-inch of whiskey in the bottom of the bottle oozed out onto the carpet, forming a small dark stain the size of the palm of one of Steven's hands on the floor just beneath his desk.

"Whoops," Steven said, his voice wavering, and giggled. "I had a acks-ee-dent!" He tried to get up out of his chair and tripped over his robe, falling flat on his face and smacking his nose on the hard wood at the edge of the carpet. He held back the urge to curse--this was the Lord's house, and cursing was not allowed (although, apparently, getting drunk off your ass and spilling whiskey on the brand-new carpet was somehow permissible)--and climbed to his feet, dusting off his robe.

_Traitor bitch!  
_Steven froze in his tracks, listening intently. His heart skipped a beat, and he almost tripped again trying to stop himself from moving forward.

Had he just heard someone's voice? He thought so.

"Is anyone there?" Steven called, his voice a slurred mess of barely discernable syllables.

No answer.

"Hello?" He pressed one hand up against the window--which, he remembered, should have been cold but wasn't--for support, and started towards the door to his office. That was one bit he had learned from the Chinese (or had it been the Japanese? Ah, they were all the same anyway, right?)--he had always put his desk facing _towards _the door, so that an assailant wouldn't be able to get the jump on him just by walking in the door. Not that it did any good, really; his desk was a full fifteen feet from the door, and there was almost nothing in between the desk and the door. Somebody could have just walked in, blown Steven away, and left, all without a single obstacle.

He reached the door, once more narrowly avoiding a painful fall--he was off of the carpet now--and stopped, propped against the wall just inches from the door. He listened, aware that his senses weren't up to the simple task, and wished that he had not picked this night to get drunk. You see, now he was afraid.

_You lied to us!_

Steven was _sure _he'd heard something that time--there could be no mistake about it. Somebody was in here with him.

"I've got a--" Steven's comment was interrupted by a loud hiccup--perfect way to round off the threatening image--and he coughed. "--a gun," he finished seconds later, when all the punch had been drained from his voice.

_Don't go, Miriam!_

Steven knew that voice. Where had he heard it before?

"I know who you are!" he called into the next room through the thin wooden door, not bothering to open it. "You'd better leave now, before I call your parents!" But he knew that whoever this was either had no parents, or didn't fear them if they did.

Steven was getting to be very afraid; he felt very sure that this wasn't just a normal intruder. Perhaps they had come to steal something...but Steven had an idea that, whoever it was, they had come with something very specific in mind.

"Go home!" he repeated, and this time the slur in his voice was easily audible. Whatever threatening image he had held until now, if any, was gone now. "Go home, or I'm calling the police!"

Yet, as he said this, he felt a deep certainty that calling the police would do no good. Nor would threats of doing so scare away his intruder.

Swallowing and taking in a deep, drunken breath, Father Steven Denton threw the door to his office wide open and leaped out into the main hallway, barely sparing himself a nasty fall by grabbing onto the rail at the top of the stairs to his immediate left. "Who's there?!" He shouted, trying to project fire into his voice. It worked...a little.

Nothing. No sound at all.

Steven, now trembling--the whiskey was probably aiding a bit in this respect--staggered down the hall, trying to regain his balance. It was a tough battle with his own senses, one that he almost didn't win. Again, he saved himself a tumble down the stairs by seizing the rail on the opposite side of the steps. He pulled himself up and started down the hall, towards the living quarters.

"I know you're in there!" he shouted. Had he been sober, Steven would have thought to be a little stealthier in his travels--if whoever had broken in really meant to harm him, he or she would certainly have an easy time gaining the drop on him, the way he was shouting and stumbling.

This time, when he heard that far-off voice, it didn't sound so far-off. It sounded close. Like it might be in the next room.

_Steven? Oh, Steven, where are you?_

He stopped cold, unable to proceed. His heart was chilled, his bones frozen. It was a woman, this intruder...and she had spoken to him by name. The voice was definitely familiar, and Steven had to fight to avoid allowing his drunk mind to run away with the fantasy that a woman from his regular Sunday sessions might have sneaked into his house in order to give him a satisfying fuck. No, whoever had sneaked into this place probably didn't intend to be nice.

Steven gathered his courage, tensed his muscles to the extreme--this wasn't far off from the extent to which they were currently tensed--and charged into the living room head-first, trying to catch whoever was there by surprise.

He hit the far wall with such a thud that his eardrums bulged with the impact, and then hit the freshly-polished wooden floor with almost as much force. His silver hair scattered all about his face in dirty clumps, and he felt warm liquid in the crevice of his left nostril; his nose was bleeding.

"Son of a..." he moaned, sliding his face slowly across the floor, not relishing the friction as the new polish burned his face. Had he been sober, he would have picked his face directly up off of the floor, saving himself a painful mark there for the next few days...but he was not sober tonight.

_Steven, it's been so long,_ the voice said, and Steven jumped. It sounded _very _close now.

Close enough to be in the room with him.

"Get away from me," he said, fumbling for his silver cross. When his pockets turned out empty, he panicked--what had he done with his Silver Cross? He _always _carried that thing with him! "Stay back, or I'll shoot," he added, trying vainly to continue the illusion that he was armed. He knew that whoever was here knew that he was empty-handed; he had not even his cross to stand by him.

_"See? I told you I always keep my promises," _the voice whispered from behind him, and he felt a cold, gnarled shape touch his shoulder. Steven's heart stopped for a second as his mind comprehended the chill of that touch--it was so cold, and yet at the same time, it felt _hot._ Hot like it might burn...and cold like it might burn. It was a paradox in itself, and Steven was sure that he would go mad if he allowed it to continue its hold. He thrashed wildly, knocking at the cold, ridged shape on his shoulder as though it were some hideous spider that had dropped onto him suddenly from above. He turned around to face the shape...and saw _her._

"Mi...Miriam?" he whined, his voice so high it almost winked out of the range of human hearing.

_"Of course, you silly goose!" _Miriam told him. She stood before him in a long white gown that blew in the evening breeze. Her legs and feet were bare, and her long golden hair trailed out behind her almost to the floor. Steven saw that behind her, the window had been opened. The _second story window._ _"Remember my promise? The one I made before I left?"_

Steven took a step back. He could not see her face in the setting twilight, and he suddenly hoped very much that he would not get the chance to. This was Miriam, all right--the same Miriam that had worked with Steven a few years back, when all that religious commotion had been going on--but something about her wasn't right.

Most definitely. Something about her was...was just_ wrong._

"What...what happened to you?" he asked her, knowing that she wouldn't answer. He knew what had happened; the members of the Order, that crazy cult over in Silent Hill, had murdered her. Gang-beaten and murdered her, and then ditched the body in the woods. The cops in Silent Hill had found it, but of course they hadn't had enough evidence to pin the murder to the Order. The cops in Silent Hill _never_ had enough evidence to convict a member of the Order of anything, and Steven doubted that they ever would.

_"I died," _she said, extending one hand. Her hands were long and soft, smooth and white, like frosting on a child's birthday cake. It looked to Stephen as though it might contort beneath his touch, were he to grasp it in his own. _"I died, because they found out about me. They found out I was working with you...and they got their revenge. They found out I had betrayed them."_

Steven backed away from her still, bumping into the doorframe that lead into the hallway from which he had come. He glanced behind him, saw that he was cornered, and turned back to Miriam.

"What did they do to you, Miriam?" he asked.

_"That's not important," _she told him, her voice wavering as though it were being broadcast from a long distance...but the ashamed look she held on her face for a moment before wiping away told Steven that it did matter. But not now. _"Your Silver Cross. The one your father gave you. You don't have it, do you?"_

"No," Steven said, trying to remember what he had done with it. "I...I think I lost it."

_"No," _she said, stepping closer to him. When she did, her dress hitched up above her knees for a moment, blown by the wind, and she jerked it downward with a quick flick of her left hand, blushing. Steven had caught a glimpse of her leg, however, and what he had seen made him feel very, very uncomfortable. But he dismissed it as a trick of the lighting and pushed it from his mind. "_You haven't lost it. You've given it away. You've declared your service." _

She extended her hand in some kind of greeting gesture, but Steven held back. He didn't trust this entity, whether or not it looked like Miriam.

"_Don't be afraid,"_ she said, and clasped her hand--open, closed, open, closed--like a child, calling for her mother to hold her. _"Why are you afraid, Steven? Don't you like me?"_

Steven thought good and hard about that, and then spoke up. "I don't know," he said, and held his place. She was slowly advancing on him, like a predator waiting to strike, and Steven saw this--he felt like he was starting to sober up, although he was skeptical about this, considering how much he had drunk just a moment ago--although he didn't let _her_ on to that. He wondered why she would feel the need to sneak ground on him like that. "I don't know for sure that you're really Miriam," he said, and that stopped her.

That look. Right there in her eyes. For one second, she had held that look in her eyes, and that one moment was all Steven needed to make his decision: this was _not _Miriam. That look had held something that Miriam had not been capable of, bright and resourceful as she had been.

That look, Steven was almost sure, had been a flash of some kind of deep hatred. But it wasn't a human hatred, not at all--it was more the kind of hatred a demon might hold for a human, the kind of immortal jealousy that an inhuman thing might hold towards one of God's children.

_"Silly Steven," _the Miriam-thing said, and took another step towards him. _"Of _course _it's me, don't you see?"_

"No," Steven said, and allowed his eyes to briefly wander down to his left. Towards the little round table just inside the living room, just to the right if one was coming out of the hallway. It wasn't the table itself that had caught Steven's attention, though; it was what was sitting on it.

_"Come on," _the Miriam-thing said, and playfully jabbed at Steven. When she did, the long sleeves of her gown slipped up, and Steven saw something that looked almost like hardened, cracked mud beneath. She quickly jerked her hand back into the sleeve and cast an alarmed glance in Steven's direction, and although Steven saw it, he pretended not to. That was probably safer. _"What's wrong, Steven? Don't you still love me?"_

Steven waited, his hand ever so slowly creeping down the wall, the sleeve of his robe pressed just close enough to his side so that (he hoped) its movement would not be noticeable in this light. "I do, Miriam," he said, trying to hide the pure, animal terror he felt, hoping that this light wouldn't be enough for the Miriam-thing to see the drops of sweat standing out on his exposed forehead. "I do..."

"_Then why don't you come?"_ she asked, closing in on him. So slowly she moved, but Steven's sight was keen--perhaps the keenest of his senses--and he noticed each inch that she gained on him. This was good, since she was now only a few inches from where he stood. Her arms were close enough to touch his shoulderblades.

"Because," he began, closing his fist around the object on the table to his left. "Because..." he pretended to grope for the right words, forced an expression of spiritual trouble onto his face...and then thrust the silver fork into her outstretched hand.

The Miriam-thing howled in agony, a howl that was far, far too deep to be that of a normal girl--dead _or _alive--and backed off, the new wound in her/its arm smoking and dripping red. _"You bastard!!" _It/she lashed out and slashed Steven across the cheek, leaving four long red marks, and he recoiled, crying out in disgust and terror. He retaliated, slashing downward with the silver fork again, this time landing it in the Miriam-thing's right shoulder. Steven brought it down with all of his might, feeling it sink into the unwilling flesh beneath his tightened fist, wanting to stop but knowing that to do so would be suicide--she would surely fall on him now, now that she knew he knew--and he continued to force the object into her until he felt a sharp, rending pain in his own shoulder.

Her right arm had gripped him there, but it was not the beautiful, smooth arm it had been earlier. It was now a lengthy, bumpy, sore-riddled mass, and the palm was at least five times the size of a normal human hand. This close to Steven's face, the fingers each looked like sticks of bamboo, and on the end of each was a massive, jagged claw stained the dark yellow that often came with the long-time usage of nicotine. It was gripping him, and it was breaking his shoulder.

"Leave...me..._be!!"_ Steven jerked the fork out of the Miriam-thing's shoulder and stabbed it into her massive inhuman hand. When he did, the flesh parted easily, like old, hard turkey that has been left out for months, and a dark fluid oozed out. Chunks of the Miriam-thing's flesh came out with the fork, and rolled onto the floor like cracked blotches of dried mud. The Miriam-thing screamed again, seizing Steven in the palm of its massive hand and throwing him down the hall. He flew the full length of the hall easily and crashed into the door at the far end, screaming in horror the entire way. His screams were silenced by the crash of oak that was the door to his office crumbling under his weight, and his vision went blurry.

_"You...you..._you!!!" The Miriam-thing was starting down the hall towards him, but it/she was limping harshly to one side, clutching the wound on her/its shoulder with her/its huge, demonic palm. The fingers closed around the left half of her body like it were no bigger than a child's doll, and Steven could see fresh (blood?) flowing from beneath it. "_You!!! YOU!!! YOUU!!!!"_

Steven panicked, watching as her/its dress bulged, the true shape beneath threatening to emerge, and he couldn't help but turn away. He was sure that if he saw what was beneath that dress, he would go insane. He had to act fast; it/she was gaining on him, and although it was moving slowly, there was nowhere to go. He turned around, glancing around his desk, panicked, praying to his God that he would find something, _anything,_ that would cease this demon's pursuit...

...and then he found it. He seized the tiny crucifix--a wooden thing, no bigger than the palm of his own hand--and turned to face the Miriam-thing, sure that it would be on top of him.

But it wasn't. It was just in the doorway of the office, less than fifteen feet from where Steven himself now stood. He held up the cross at this distance and shouted.

"_Begone from this place, ye thing of Satan!"_ He held the cross up high, could feel its power flowing through him. Felt the power of what little true faith he had left...and hoped it would be enough. "_Begone from this Holy place, or face my wrath!"_

The Miriam-thing smiled, as though it were actually _glad..._but Steven saw the look that bled into its eyes, and knew that he had won...for now.

"_Fine," _it/she hissed, and Steven could see what looked like a forked tongue shoot out of her/its mouth. There were more than two forks in it, however. "_Fine, I'll go. But you can't hide from it, Steven. You can't. No matter where you go..."_

"Shut up," Steven said, commanding the demon from beneath the power of his makeshift crucifix. He had made this thing in Vacation Bible School, some twenty years ago, and he had held it dear to his heart ever since. _Good thing, too,_ he thought now, watching the hatred in the demon's eyes grow. "Shut up and go back from whence you came."

_"I'll go, Father...but you'll follow. You and Him. Your faith will be your undoing, Father--"_

"Shut up--"

"--o_r rather, your _lack _thereof," _the creature finished, and halted.

Steven lowered the cross, staring quizically at the shape before him.

The Miriam-thing's body had begun to shrink downward, but not proportionally--it was getting shorter, as though it were sinking into a hole in the ground.

Steven stumbled, terrified, towards the thing, being careful to stay out of the reach of its claws, until he could get a closer look at it. The dress was staying above ground, but the thing in it appeared to be _melting_. Disappearing right into the floor.

Off in the distance, Father Steven heard emergency sirens. Good. So somebody must have called the police.

"Wait," Steven whispered slowly, listening more closely. No, those weren't police sirens--the pitch wasn't right. Nor did they carry the high, warbling shriek of ambulance sirens. They sounded like...

"Like air-raid sirens," he finished, his voice barely a whisper, and then a bolt of pain tore through his forehead. He dropped to his knees, clutching his forehead and screaming in agony. It was worse than anything he had ever felt--it was like feeling the pain of every little boy or girl in the world who had ever been molested and abused as a child; it was like feeling the physical torment of every human on the earth who had ever been taken in the midst of the night and murdered in a cold clearing far from home. It was, in short, like feeling the pain of the entire human race. It was horrible, and it was unbearable. He covered his ears, trying to block out that horrible sound, trying to keep it out of his head, but it only continued to grow louder. Louder. _Louder. LOUDER._ Pretty soon, he wouldn't be able to take it anymore, and he would simply go insane. Hell, he might be just that already. That would be a relief.

But something inside him told him that he was _not_ insane, that _none_ of this was a dream; yet, at the same time, every part of him screamed that it _was _a dream, that he would wake up any moment. But he knew that was bullshit, all of this had happened--he had only to look at the shriveled, bloody gown scrunched in the doorway to see that.

**Sitting** on the couch in Room 303 of South Ashfield Heights and watching another re-run of _King of the Hill, _a bowl of popcorn placed neatly in her lap Eileen couldn't figure out why she had been feeling this way. It had all started the other night, just after the Walter Sullivan thing had been resolved. A great, melancholy sensation had hung over her mind like a dark curtain of despair, picking away at the edge of every thought that tried to make its way in. She had been unable to focus on anything else, even her favorite hour-and-a-half of comedy every night starting at five o'clock on Pox Ten. Normally, a run of _Family Guy, The Simpsons _and _King of the Hill, _all in one night, was enough to cheer her up from even the blackest bottom of depression...but not today. Not today, and not the day before, either. Something felt seriously wrong this time around. And it didn't help that Henry had been almost oblivious to her for the last couple of days. You'd think that after you'd slept with a guy, he would at least give you the time of day...but, she supposed she knew that story. It was the same story, guy after guy...there hadn't been too many in her life before--she may not have bought into the whole chastity deal, but she hadn't exactly been a skank, either--but that had been largely because the two there actually _had _been had been just flings; nothing romantic, nothing long-term, just a few dates, a quick bang or two, and a break-up. She had expected better from Henry, but she supposed it was inevitable...he _was _a guy, after all.

_You shouldn't think about Henry like that,_ part of her mind whispered. _Not after all he did for you back there. He hasn't even said anything about breaking up yet!_

"Yeah," Eileen mumbled out loud. "I should give him more credit than that, I guess."

_Or should you? _that pessimist in her mind retorted, sounding wary and paranoid. _He doesn't have to say anything for you to get the deal--he's probably just setting you up for the big break. Or maybe he's avoiding you, hoping you'll think he's a jerk and break up with him!_

_Oh, stop, _the other half of her mind whispered. _You're just over-sensitizing yourself, since the last time you fucked a guy he dumped you a week later._

A picture of Henry popped into her mind--Henry, standing over her bloodied body as she lay in the floor of Room 303...Henry, falling to his knees and clutching his head in a mixture of agony and despair...then, waking up in the hospital and seeing Henry's face over hers...being so sure that Walter had come back...

Eileen shivered.

"Calm down," she told herself, wiping Walter's scowl from her mind's eye. "It wasn't even Walter. It was Henry." She remembered panicking, flailing about like a maniac, and then shook her head to drive the image away.

The funniest thing about this depression was, Eileen supposed, that it had just come out of nowhere--two days ago, she hadn't given a second thought to the notion that Henry might betray her. The idea had just appeared in her mind seemingly overnight. Perhaps she had dreamed about it, and instead of remembering her dream upon waking up, her mind had stored it in her subconscious in the form of a doubt?

Eileen nodded, telling herself that that seemed likely. She'd heard of it happening to a lot of people before.

She picked up the remote and thumbed the volume switch higher, hoping that the sound of cartoons would drown out her aggravating surge of thoughts. She hadn't been feeling at all like herself lately; what had happened in the last two days to change her so much? It had only been two days; what, was Henry supposed to grovel at her feet every minute of every day? That was unrealistic; she knew better than to think it wasn't. It wasn't a valid reason to be down at all. So what was going on, then?  
A loud voice made her realize that her eyes had wandered to the end of the hall while she'd been thinking--her thumb, still pressed down on the volume button on the remote, had pressed the volume up almost to full blast--and she turned the TV down quickly, all of a sudden not so sure that she wanted to drown out her thoughts...at least, not just yet.

Her eyes were focused on the segment of wall in between her bathroom and bedroom--the same place in Henry's room that had led to the place where Walter's true body had once been. She wondered why she should feel so attracted to that space...it wasn't even the same space. Breaking through there would only lead into Henry's living room, and would pretty much destroy any chance of getting any of her security deposit back.

She stood up off of the couch, walked towards the hall...and passed it, going into the kitchen. She dumped the last of her popcorn in the trash--it was a day or two old, anyway--and tossed the plastic bowl into the sink. It hit the basin with a plastic _thwock _and swirled around for a second, coming to a slow stop balanced just over the garbage disposal. She placed one hand on either side of the sink and gripped the basin there, peering down into it as though she might throw up.

Eileen felt a faint sickness deep down inside that _wanted _to be a gag, but wasn't; it felt sort of like the onset of the stomach flu. _Great, _she thought, sighing into the sink but not taking her face out of the basin yet. _Every day's a blast when you have the stomach flu, the gift that makes you keep on giving._

After a moment had passed, Eileen took her face out of the basin. That faint sickness was gone, and if not for the thought she had had during the moment in which she had felt it, she might have doubted its existence at all.

_Probably from the popcorn, _her optimistic mind insisted. _That's what you get for eating things you left out yesterday._

_No, _the pessimist challenged. _That's not it at all, and you know it. It's that damn wall. There's something in there._

"No," Eileen said, but her voice was faint, not much of a challenge.

_Yes, there's something in there. And it's driving you mad, because _you want to see it.

"No," she reiterated out loud, staring down the hallway. All of a sudden, it seemed darker than usual. And longer. Was it longer? Of course it wasn't--that was impossible--but her definition of 'impossible' had been acutely redefined over the course of the past few days, enough to the point where she was able to doubt this. _Was _it longer? "Nothing wrong here," Eileen finished, inciting the slogan of her favorite childhood cereal corporation.

_Just check it out,_ the pessimist insisted, nagging at her--she imagined the owner of this 'voice' as a little red Eileen with horns and a pitchfork, standing on her left shoulder. _Just wait until Henry's not home; you've got his key--that's one thing he _did _do right, is give you the key._

_No! _the optimist voice implored. _There's nothing back there you want to see! And even if there was, it's better not to see it. Remember what happened last time?_

Actually, Eileen didn't remember that at all. She would have responded so to the little 'voice' in the back of her mind--this one, the optimist, she visualized as a little pale-skinned Eileen, dressed in a white robe with wings and a halo, positioned just over her right shoulder--had it not already been there. They were, after all, one and the same.

Eileen tried to take her gaze off of the wall at the end of the hallway...and found that she couldn't. Whatever was in there...she wanted to see it. Even if it was just a peek.

_It's looking at me,_ she thought suddenly, and was scared by the certainty behind this feeling. _Whatever is in there, it's watching me right now. It's waiting for me to decide whether or not to go see it. It _knows _that I'm thinking that._

_Yes! _the optimist said. _Yes, the woman sees reason! It's Him in there, and he's waiting for you, he's angry that he missed his first chance and he's coming back for you, but he can only get you if you play his game!  
It's dead, _the pessimist said. The way things were going, Eileen thought that these voices would soon have to switch names. _Whatever is in there, it's dead. You don't have to worry about it. It might have been able to get you before, but it's dead now._

Her head hurt, and her stomach was starting to ache again.

_Just a peek!  
No, stay away!_

_Just one look--_

_Don't listen to--_

_Don't be such a wuss--_

"_Shut up!!"_ Eileen shouted, gripping the sides of her head with both hands. "Just shut up, you hear me?" She looked around, realized that she was alone--and that somebody else in the building had probably heard her--and felt her face flush. Thank God nobody could see her now; the other tenants probably just thought she was arguing with somebody.

"I can't do this," she told nobody. "I'm not going to go crazy." She might have sympathized better with Henry the day before if she'd felt this way back then. She rushed to the end of the hall and slapped one hand against the wallpaper, the palm making a wet, sweaty _smack _against the paper as she did. For some reason, this made her feel a little more calm.

She ran her hand up the wallpaper, feeling for any inconsistencies along the smooth plaster beneath. She was thinking of Henry's storage closet, which had been sealed off. Of course, there _couldn't _be something like that in here.

Eileen remembered that feeling she'd had earlier, just before the detective had visited...that feeling that a great, red Eye was watching over her, and that there might be two of these Eyes, and one of them might just be watching Henry, too...and that confirmed her suspicions. She had no doubt about it now.

Something was in there, and even if it wasn't alive, it could see her.

She had to get in there.

Eileen turned and rushed to the closet at the end of the hall.

_No! _the optimist screamed.

_Yes! _the pessimist cheered.

Eileen ignored them both; she was sure that she was being watched. She didn't know how, and she didn't know why...but she was going to put a stop to it. She was no longer fully in control of herself--it was as though some force much bigger than herself had seized her, like a child seizes a tool before going to draw a picture, and was using her like a pencil to draw her part of the Big Picture.

And the worst part was, she knew it.

Ten minutes later, Eileen was strolling down the sidewalk of Arrold Street, less than a mile from her apartment. She carried a beige duffelbag by the strap in one hand, while the other hand was placed in the pocket of her leather jacket. She approached The Gunman with an uncertain smile on her face, not really able to believe that she was going to go through with this. Something deep inside her told her that this was the way to go...but it was a feeling very similar to the ones she'd gotten back in high-school. The teacher would be giving out notes, and Eileen would decide not to take a few so that she'd have time to finish a note to one of her friends, thinking that the notes weren't very important...and then the teacher would go over them again, and stress how important they were. Eileen would continue to ignore them, thinking, _it's just one or two notes; they can't be _that _important._ And then, as it would turn out, those one or two notes would be the foundation on which most of the remainder of the course was based.

In other words, it was a feeling that was both spontaneous and unsure. Eileen had good reason to believe that this wasn't necessarily a good combination, but it was better than nothing; for the past three days, she had been wallowing in a deep depression, unsure of what to do from this point forward. Henry seemed to be busy with some important project--he was still so sure that there was more to the Morris murder case than met the eye, and while Eileen didn't discount this theory completely, she thought that there was a good chance that it was a coincidence--and so he had ignored what little of a relationship they had seemed to be developing, much to Eileen's disappointment. Thankfully, she hadn't gone to bed with him just to get his attention; if she had, she would have been severely disappointed with herself right now.

Eileen opened the door to The Gunman, listening to the bell jingle over her head, and stared for a short moment at all the guns around her. She wasn't familiar with most of them--had no idea what the difference between a nine-millimeter MP5 and a .45 automatic was, beyond the fact that the MP5's clip looked sort of funny because it was improportionate to the rest of the gun--but her eye found the model she _did _know after only a few short seconds. She approached the model behind the glass case with a look of satisfaction on her face.

"Help you?" a voice asked her from behind, and she jumped, uttering a high-pitched shriek that lasted barely a second. Her reflexes were getting better; she'd been able to contain that scream a lot more easily than she might have been able to a few days ago. That was a good sign, she guessed, although she couldn't see what use it might have.

Eileen turned to face the man, who wore a tweed jacket over a camouflage tee-shirt and an orange hunting cap, and smiled uneasily. "Oh, yeah," she said. Her reflexes might not have improved so much, she realized, since this man had been able to come up behind her so easily without her noticing. "I was wondering how much for this one?" She pointed to the model which hung in the glass case.

The man let out a long, low whistle. "_That_ baby?" he asked, flashing Eileen an uncertain--and almost patronizing--look. "You sure you can handle something that big?"

Eileen smiled a sarcastic smile. "Why don't you let me figure that out? How much is it?"  
The man's eyes widened. "Whoa, there! Gettin' ahead of yourself, little girl." He backed off as he said this, as though he were afraid she might attack him. "You got a permit?"

Eileen said nothing, just dipped into her duffelbag and took out a black folder. It said _Senior Portraits _on the outside cover. She held it out to the man.

"Prom photos ain't gonna buy you a gun that big, hon," the man said, his patronizing tone returning. Eileen didn't like this guy's attitude one bit.

"Look in the folder," she said, and tapped the cover. The man obliged. When he saw the papers inside, his brows raised, but that was about it. Eileen saw none of the fascination she had expected this man to show--for a man who had been taunting her so, she'd expected him to feel stupid upon reading through the papers in that folder.

"Looks like you got everythin' in order," the man said, allowing his Yankee accent to shine through. He had apparently been hiding it for some reason since Eileen had come in the door. "You gonna buy shells, too?"  
"What else do you expect me to shoot it with?" Eileen asked. Sadly, it was an honest question.

The man snorted in a frustrated manner and went behind the counter. He reached under it and dropped out of sight, only to return seconds later with a large box in his hand. The box was about a foot and a half in length. "That'll be $228.57," he said, and his other hand emerged from beneath the counter and dropped two boxes of shells beside the bigger box. "Cash or check?"

Now, she was ready...and slowly, she was becoming more and more certain that the voices were more than just part of her subconscious. They were familiar voices, of course, but that did not mean that they actually belonged to somebody she knew...just that her mind had chosen a familiar ground on which to present the information the voices were offering.

She walked down Arrold Street, her new weapon tucked safely into the duffelbag, her wallet $228.57 lighter, and her mind harried by the voices, which were growing in strength and volume.

**Officer** John Philip Herring burst into the front office of the APD, his face and dark hair a sweaty mess and his clothes stained with sweat that could only have come from either complete exhaustion or sheer terror. "I need to speak to Detective Cartland, _now,"_ he said to the man at the front desk, Officer Hamilton.

Hamilton jerked straight up out of his seat, slamming both hands on the desk to avoid slipping and falling. "Herring, you're a mess! What hap--"

"_Where's Cartland?!"_ Herring bellowed, and Hamilton started, surprised by the volume of Herring's voice.

"I, umm," Hamilton thought rapidly, unable to proceed due to nerves. Herring didn't yell unless something was _very _wrong, and needed immediate attention. Hamilton didn't want to be the one to tell him that--

"Cartland's on duty," Wharton said, coming out of the evidence room to the right of the entrance to the station. "He got Sullivan to talk, and he's following a lead."

"Shit," Herring hissed through clenched teeth, and turned to leave the room the way he had come. Before he reached the door, he stopped and turned back to Wharton. "Did he say where he was going?"

"Nope," Wharton said firmly; he was apparently very unhappy at having been interrupted from his work, tedious as it may have been. "Just that he was gonna follow a lead or two, that's all. Where's the fire?"

Herring hesitated, then shook his head. "No time," he said breathlessly. "Maybe later."

He said something else before he left the room and jumped back into his cruiser, perhaps to try and reach Douglas on the radio, but Wharton didn't catch all of it. Even so, what he _had _heard had sounded like y_ou wouldn't believe me if I told you._

Wharton and Hamilton each felt a chill zigzag down his spine, although neither noticed the other.

END OF CHAPTER 9


	10. The Rubik's Cube of Life

**Chapter 10**

**The Rubik's Cube of Life**

_"Sometimes, you're shaken to the core_

_Sometimes, the face is gonna fall_

_Don't you let it!"_

Sometimes, _Midnight Oil_

_(Diesel and Dust)_

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**EACH** step Douglas took was one step closer to his destiny.

The stairs of the South Ashfield Heights apartment complex weren't very big, but for some reason, Douglas found it harder and harder to take each successive step. It was not a physical thing that kept him from taking the steps two at a time in the midst of his excitement--he had thought, on more than one occasion, of how his reputation would grow if he were to capture the Sullivan case murderer all by his lonesome--but rather a growing sense of dread, as though some terrible thing awaited him at the top of the steps.

He finally climbed the top step, not gasping for breath but feeling like he should have been. He reached for the handle on the right of the two double-doors on his right, seized it, and pushed the doors open. They swung in and out on their hinges as he passed through them, like the shutters in a saloon during the confrontation scene of some old Western. That was closer to what it felt like he was doing now, actually--going to confront some great enemy on whose tail he had been for the past few years. It was odd that he should feel that way, since he hadn't worked on the original Sullivan case--hadn't even been anywhere near the town of Ashfield during those dark days--but that didn't stop him from doing so.

As he turned the corner, he could hear murmered conversation from behind the door marked 'Room 304.' It was impossible to determine the sex or age of that voice's owner, since the door muffled all but the faintest traces of sound...hearing it both comforted and agitated him at the same time. Douglas didn't know how that was possible, but he was feeling it all the same. It was as though everyone had gone inside for the night; as though they had gone in to their shelter, to hide from the demons that came out at night.

No matter what those demons might be, Douglas was not here to run, to hide, to cower, or to be afraid. He was here to stop those demons--it was his job, after all. He was a sort of modern-day monster hunter, when one really thought about it--hunting down the monsters of society, the child molesters, the murderers, the psychopaths, and all the rest. He was the 50-something-year-old Van Helsing, in the flesh, and he was going to kick some proverbial ass.

Douglas actually felt the part of himself with which he was more familiar shrink back at this thought. Since when had he been so overconfident? It seemed almost that his rookie days were coming back to haunt him--those early days of his long career when he had thought that he was the best, that nobody would ever be able to get the drop on him because he was _himself,_ he was _Douglas Cartland, _the one, the best, and the only. He had quickly overcome those feelings as reality set in during his early years...but here they were again. Perhaps it was because he still had some maturing to do...?

Ignoring the thoughts and strange, ancient emotions that raced through his mind, Douglas stopped outside the door marked 'Room 302.' He stared at it for a long, long time, contemplating.

What he had come to hunt was in there, he was sure of it. Whether it was a man, a beast, or some combination of the two Douglas didn't know...but he would soon find out.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**WHEN** the doorbell buzzed, Henry looked up from his scrapbook collection, dazed. Had he fallen asleep? Peeling the sheet of red paper off of his flushed cheek, he thought yes. He must have become bored and dozed off, losing track of his work. Well, he would have plenty of time to do this tomorrow, anyway.

"Screw it," he muttered, uninhibited, and headed for the bedroom door. He went down the hall at a slow, relaxed pace, expecting either the pizza he had ordered over an hour ago or Eileen...but not expecting what he found when he reached the door.

"Hold on, I'm on my--" Henry's voice dropped off abruptly when he opened the door, and his eyes flew wide open. A passerby might have mistaken them for small dinnerplates at that moment.

Here was Walter Sullivan, staring at him. In the flesh. Or was that even accurate anymore?  
Henry started to throw the door shut, but Walter must have seen the thought in his eyes, because his arm shot out and caught the crease of Henry's elbow, gripping it tight.

"Got something to hide?" an unfamliar voice asked him. It was a low, gruff voice...and Henry's eyebrows went up. _That_ wasn't Walter's voice.

Henry blinked once, hard, and let out a sigh of relief as his eyes let him see the truth. It wasn't Walter Sullivan at all...it was just an old guy in a funny little hat and a beige trenchcoat. It must have been the coat that had set him off--it looked quite a bit like the one Walter had been wearing.

"Oh, no," Henry said, and felt his body loosen up a bit. He really didn't think he had anything to hide, although he wondered briefly what the man would say if he saw the strange notes piled up on the desk in his bedroom. "I was just...wait a minute. Who are you?" His eyes narrowed a little, but not in paranoia. It was more like an expression of his drowsy state of mind.

"My name is Douglas Cartland," the man began, reaching into his jacket for something, "and I'm a detective. I'm currently working with the APD on the Walter Sullivan case. You know, the recent one." The detective produced a badge-holder with his photo ID slid into the card holder just beneath the badge. It confirmed his claim quite convincingly. "We've gotten word that someone you know may have been involved in the recent case."

Henry's eyes widened a little, but he managed to conceal the rest of his surprise. "What?" His first thought had been of Eileen...but that was silly, she was right next door to him. Unless she'd gone out, in which case they might have come to his house and asked about her...

"My advice is to stop trying to figure me out, and just wait for me to tell you," the detective said, and Henry's train of thought crashed as quickly and abruptly as a bullet whose path has been suddenly obstructed. "All I need to know is whether or not you're going to comply with my request." He replaced the badge in his jacket, a gesture which made Henry very uncomfortable for some reason. It was as though the man expected to need both hands for whatever it was he was about to do. Henry quickly dismissed the idea that this man might be an agent of the Order, sent from Silent Hill to kill or harm him. That was a crazy idea, and Henry knew it.

"What do you want?" Henry asked calmly.

"All I need is to ask you a couple of questions," the man in the coat responded.

Henry didn't take much time to think. "Sure, I guess," he said, fidgeting in a sleepy manner.

"You mind stepping outside?" the detective said, motioning with his thumb toward the exit. "I don't want to impose or anything, but I really want a smoke."

"I guess not," Henry said, and just like that, he went with the man. On a better day, he might have been more suspicious of this person whom he had never met, but today was not a normal day.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**EILEEN** waited in her room, watching through the peephole, until she was sure that the two were gone. She very gently cracked the door open and placed here ear up to the tiny slit, listening for the sound of the swinging double-doors that lead to the central stairwell. Once Henry and Douglas passed through them, the few tidbits of conversation she had been able to hear faded away until they became inaudible. That didn't matter; she was not here to follow their inane conversation. She was here for a much better reason.

That thing was watching her. And she was going to go see it, right here and right now. That, and she had to confirm the sneaking suspicion that had begun to form at the back of her mind, a suspicion that unnerved her greatly.

Eileen pushed the door open, being very careful to conceal the large metal grip of the .44 Desert Eagle she had bought at The Gunman just an hour or so ago. She had placed it in a rawhide holster beneath her left shoulder so that the bottom of the large grip rubbed against her armpit. It was uncomfortable, but she would risk uncomfortability in place of mortal danger. She stepped out into the hall, peeked both ways--in this place, so many people had the mind to stick their nose in where it didn't belong, and she didn't want anyone to see her go into Henry's room--and quickly moved down the hall to Room 302.

She had thought that she would need her keys, but she had been wrong. Henry, always a trusting fellow, had left the door unlocked. The knob turned with ease beneath her slender fingers, and she pulled it open and intruded on her lover's private quarters without a second thought.

Immediately, she was overcome with a sleepy, hungry terror...and the urge to run back to the bedroom. She had no idea what that desire meant--there was nothing sexual about it, despite the implications her mind made in reference to the bedroom--and so she turned her mind from it. What she really wanted to focus on (not really _wanted, _so much as felt _obligated _to) was the thing at the end of the hallway.

She knew it was there.

And she knew that it was watching her.

"Stop it," she told the thing, knowing that it woudn't listen. Why should it? It was tucked away, all nice and safe, in that storage closet behind the sealed plaster in Henry's hallway. She looked behind her at the door, as if for one last taste of reality, and saw that it had shut on its own. It was probably the wind, she thought, although she realized she was ignoring the facts that there was no wind today, and the AC unit hadn't been turned on.

Turning back to the room's rugged interior, she felt that dreamlike fear slip over her again. That something was watching her...and it was strong. Whatever it was, it wasn't at all scared to see Eileen coming for it. It actually seemed _glad._ She didn't know how she knew this (and honestly, she didn't want to), but she knew it all the same. She reached the end of the hallway, and had to force herself to look down at the other end.

Nothing.

Nothing but the plaster that covered the hole, the hole that lead into Henry's supply closet.

All of a sudden, a strange sensation began in Eileen's mind; she immediately knew--_knew_--that, were she to tear down that plaster wall, she would find something very, very...not good. But at the same time, she knew in her heart that she would find nothing. It was the return of Pessimistic and Optimistic, and they had brought popcorn this time--looked like they were staying for the double feature. Her mind felt like it was trying to split in two. What the hell was this?

_Let the Mother die,_ a voice suddenly said in her mind, and she recoiled, suddenly very, very afraid.

_Just let her die, _the voice repeated. _The Mother deserves to die. Just leave her be--even if they get her, they won't be able to do anything without the Receiver. They are like flipsides of the coin--you need both to flip it._

She had no idea where the voice was coming from, and she was sure that it wasn't speaking to her...but at the same time, it _was._ It was a very hard feeling for her to articulate, much less describe. It was a feeling very similar, she imagined, to being in two places at once.

"Just...shut up," she told the voice, and shook her head, as though doing so could shake it from her mind like the last cracker from the bottom of a box of cheez-its. She moved to the end of the hall, close enough to the wall so that she could smell the plaster coating. It smelled new, like it had just recently been covered. It had to have been--they had just broken it down, what, two? three? days ago?--but part of her paradoxical mind insisted that it hadn't. She didn't realize it at this moment, but Eileen was having two separate trains of thought at the exact same time.

_I can see you,_ a dark, soft voice said. It sounded like it had come from beyond the wall...but Eileen knew that it hadn't. At least, not physically. Whatever was sending the message was surely locked away there...but that had been in her head. It had been a cold, sharp voice, piercing to the back of her mind as though the words were made of icicles, frozen devices that had been sharpened to a fine point.

"No," Eileen said, but the weak words of negation fell flat to her feet, with no belief to hold them up. "No, you can't."

_I can see _everything, it insisted. _I can see her, the Mother...and how she calls out to you...oh, how she screams his name! Oh, how her pain makes him GROW!_

"Shut _up,_" Eileen said again, and cupped the sides of her head. She heard a faint scream--surely, that had been in her head?--and then the voice that had screamed called a name. Eileen couldn't make out what it had been, but she thought it sounded a lot like _Daddy._ "Leave her alone," she told the thing, not knowing to or about whom she was talking. "Stop it, please."

_Want to hear her scream?_

"No," Eileen said, and closed her eyelids. She tried to resist the tears that threatened to come forth, but found that she couldn't. She thought that she might actually be feeling that girl's pain, her emotional agony, and quite suddenly she had had enough.

Eileen pulled the .357 Magnum revolver from her holster and pointed it at the broken plaster. She pulled back the hammer, cocking it, and placed her hand on the trigger.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**DOUGLAS** flicked his cigarette on the pavement, watching it smolder for a moment before a young kid on a skateboard sped by and put it out by accident. He turned to Henry and sighed. "Rough week," he said, as though it should have meant something to Henry.

"Sounds like," Henry said, not without enthusiasm. "It sounds like you've got your work cut out for you." In his jeans pocket, he ran his fingers over the silver cross given to him by Father...what had his name been? Father Stan...Steve...Steven? Was that it? Oh, well. It didn't really matter now.

"Well, to tell you the truth, we could have put the guy through court already," Douglas said, speaking the truth. "But those dickheads down at the station can't seem to pull their heads out of their asses long enough to deal with this case. They don't seem to realize exactly how much this case means to the people of this city...hell, to people everywhere." He sighed again, taking his hat off and fingering it delicately. "Bunch of damn rookies." He wasn't sure why, but he had been feeling especially ornery ever since that guy Walter had come in. He assumed it probably had a lot to do with the guy's attitude, and he was mostly right.

"So," Henry said, scuffing his slippers on the sidewalk and jittering his back against the brick wall, "how do I play into this?"

Douglas laughed and looked down at the ground, as if something had suddenly caught his interest there. "That's the interesting part. See, I was actually supposed to arrest you." He immediately looked at Henry, having sensed the tension he had just created by making that statement, and grinned. "But I hardly think that the word of a convict is enough to go on. Besides, you seem like a straight fellow to me."

"That's good, I guess," Henry agreed, shrugging. "But...why would he mention my name? What did I do? And better yet...how does this guy know me?" He stopped, looking the detective in the eye. "What's his name, again?"

Douglas raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, again? I never told you to begin with," he teased. "No...his name was Walter. Walter Sullivan."

Henry froze. He felt his blood run cold.

Apparently, so did Douglas. His eyes locked on Henry's. "You know him." Not a question.

"Y...yeah," Henry said, suddenly very wide awake. The emotions called up by that name being used in conjunction with a living man had destroyed any chance he would have of getting to sleep for quite awhile. "We...we go back, I guess."

"How long?"

"A couple of days," Henry said pitifully.

"Don't mess with me," Douglas said sternly. "I don't want to get the impression that you're messing with me, because I actually kind of like you. How do you know this guy?"

"That's the thing," Henry said. "It _can't _be the same guy. It's gotta be a coincidence." He looked away from the detective, too embarrassed to say what he was thinking. Surely the man would think him crazy.

"And why not?"

Henry shuffled his feet together, gathering his courage. He took a deep breath, looked the detective squarely in the eyes, and said it all at once: "I killed him. He tried to kill me, but...but I killed him." Then, after a short hesitation, he added, "But it was self-defense. I mean, it's not like I murdered him. _He _came after _me._"

Douglas' other eyebrow slowly came up. "Are you trying to tell me that I have a dead man down at the police station?" he asked, ignoring Henry's would-be justification. Henry couldn't tell if he was asking that honestly or making a joke at his expense.

"Well, I," Henry began, stumbling over his words, "I mean, it might not be the same guy, but..." he paused, gathering his thoughts. "...but it can't be just a coincidence, either. It's the same name, and only three days later..."

Douglas started to say something else, but then they heard the gunshot, followed by a loud, almost feline shriek. There was a crash, as though something heavy (and perhaps wooden, judging by the loud, hollow thump that followed) had fallen.

"What...the hell?" Henry said, his head cocking to face the corner of the building. The sound had come from the top floor...from Room 302.

"Come on," Henry said, and tapped the detective's wrist. After he had Douglas' attention, Henry jerked the back door to South Ashfield Heights wide open and dashed inside, the detective hot on his heels.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**EILEEN** stood that way for a very long time--probably a minute, at least--with the gun leveled, pointed at the plaster wall which marked the end of the hall. She clicked back the hammer, listening but not really paying attention as the chamber revolved and the firing pin locked into place. Her hands trembled with the weight of her task; tiny drops of sweat were running down her slender arms as she stood there.

_What are you, crazy? _The voice on her right shoulder--optimist, the little angel--inquired, and snapped Eileen out of her current trance.

"What?" she asked, not in response to the voice she knew she hadn't heard.

_You can't just go blowing stuff apart like that,_ the voice told her, and she lowered the gun...slowly. She turned around, but her eyes refused to leave that spot on the wall.

It was still in there. Maybe pressed up against the wall right now, waiting for her to come in after it.

_That's right, _pessimist interjected, stepping up to the plate. In her mind, Eileen could almost see the little red critter crawling up to her ear and whispering into it. _It's waiting for you, and it's watching you. If you go in there, you can make it stop. You can close its Eye._

_No! _optimist begged. _If you go in there, it'll kill you for sure! If you stay here--stay _away--_you'll be okay, but not if you go inside there! Please, for God's sake, consider the consequences!_

Eileen had strolled down the hallway, and now she stood over the small storage chest that lay at the end; stood over it like a mourner standing over a grave at a funeral. It was an oblong shape, like a very tightly rounded rectangle, and the top of it, she saw--the lid, that would be--was on hinges. She leaned down and opened it, not knowing what she was looking for or what she expected to find in there. She was no longer really in charge of her own mind, she found...and she actually found it sickeningly pleasant. It was like having someone help you cheat at poker--you didn't actually have to play the game yourself; you just had to follow the lead.

In the chest was a jumble of useless, strange objects--here was a rusty axe, barely the length of her forearm...a child's aluminum baseball bat...a stack of subway coins, and next to it, a subway ticket with the name 'Cynthia Velasquez' scribbled hastily in someone's inept cursive. Eileen rummaged through all of these things, stacking them off in one corner of the box like a child who has reluctantly agreed to clean her toybox.

Here, here! This was what she needed.

Her hands closed around the handle on the giant red-tipped pickaxe, lifting it out of the box with the utmost care--it was so heavy, Eileen thought, that if she were to drop it at the wrong angle and let go of it too late, it might very well break her wrist...or, if it were to land there, her foot.

_There! _pessimist said, affirming the strange sense of satisfaction that had accompanied Eileen's discovery of the axe. She grinned, but it was a faint-hearted grin, far-off, as though it had been transmitted to her from a long distance. _Now you can do what you need to do!_

_Please, _optimist pleaded, and in her mind, Eileen saw this little creature tugging at her right ear with both of its pudgy hands, unable to convince her yet unable to accept it.

"I'm not convinced of anything," she told nobody, not really sure what the words meant. Suddenly, a strange phrase occured to her: _We're a happy family, we're a happy family, we're a happy family..._

"No," she said, pushing away the memory that tried to surface with it.

_We're a happy family...me, mom and daddy..._

Eileen felt tears coming, and tried to fight them back...what was this? What did those words mean? And why should they strike such deep, painful wells of emotion? They meant nothing to her, they were just a bunch of lines from some old song...so why did they make her feel that way?

_Doesn't matter, _pessimist insisted. _You have the axe. Now break down that wall and take care of business!_

_NO!!_

"Shut up," Eileen commanded. "Both of you."

The voices ceased as suddenly as they had set in, as though they were real beings who might actually be capable of obeying her commands.

Eileen started down the hall, the pickaxe gripped tightly in both hands, her ankles digging shallow, temporary grooves in the carpet as gravity pulled the combined weight of the axe and her body towards the floor. She reached the plaster wall and stood before it, reverent, like it was a statue of something worthy of worship instead of a hunk of weak plaster.

_Break it!_

_No!_

It seemed that even her stern commands could not stave off those insistent, warring voices. Her hands lifted up, carrying the axe up in front of her.

"No," she said, trying to resist...but her arms wouldn't listen. They continued to raise the axe, and now it was almost over her head. It was so heavy, and it hurt her wrists to hold it so tightly, but it felt like her body was no longer really her own--just a channel for some outside force.

_We're a happy family, we're a happy family..._

_Break it!!_

_Stop it while you still ca--_

_If you break it, the voices will stop--_

_--me, mom and daddy--_

_--go ahead and--_

_--stop it--_

_--daddy likes--_

_--BREAK--_

_--NO--_

_--WE'RE A HAP--_

And then, without a second to consider, she brought the pickaxe down, plunging the length of the axe's banana-curved tip into the plaster all the way up to the base. Her grip had laxed momentarily as the axe actually left her hand for a moment before crashing through the wall, but now she tightened that grip once more and pushed forward on the handle, turning the banana-curved protrusion until it pried a large chunk of plaster off of the wall. The hunk of material crumbled and fell to the carpet at the foot of the wall, cracking open like dry, white mud.

Eileen raised the axe again, her eyes red with deep-seated ambition, and drove it once again into the weak plaster. This time the axe knocked a wide hole in the wall, at least three inches in diameter--the axe had struck a particularly faulty point of the wall, and taken much of the material around it with it when it penetrated--and when she put her foot on the other side of the axe's point and pushed, the axe tore out most of the remainder of the wall below waist-level. Plaster exploded down the hall, and little grains struck her legs and arms like sand from a beach breeze.

She now stood before a wall which stopped just below her waist. It looked rather odd, like those child-safe doors that had two separate segments--one on top and one on bottom--except that the bottom half had been removed.

Well, removed was sort of an understatement; the trail of mutilated plaster that stretched all the way down the hallway was a testament to the destruction she had enacted. Eileen backed up a step, hefted the axe off to one side, swung wide...and planted the whole thing into the wall, halfway up the handle. It protruded from the wall at an awkward angle. She pictured what would happen if she were to simply leave now, with the axe stuck in there like that, and if Henry were to come in and find it like that, and laughed. That would be funny...but she had no intention of leaving here. Not now. She had already begun.

Planting one foot to the right of the protrusion and seizing the handle with both hands, she pulled too hard. A bolt of pain shot from each arm up into her underdeveloped biceps, and she resisted the urge to cry out.

The axe wouldn't move.

"Damn," she hissed, and pulled again. Nothing. She would have to find another way to--

All of a sudden, the wall in which the axe was now stuck simply collapsed; it fell to the floor in chunks around the point of insertion, and the axe fell with it, buried beneath the white pellets. There was now an oddly human-shaped hole in the part of the wall which remained, just big enough--Eileen thought--to step through without having to crouch down.

A cold, heavy breeze drifted out from beneath the crack. It was not a normal chill, of course--this one chilled more than her bones; it chilled her all the way down to the soul.

_That is its breath, _a voice she didn't recognize spoke from within her mind, and she quickly dispelled the disconcerting thought, forcing her unwilling legs to take her into the cold den of the thing that waited inside.

She took one step...two...three...and when she rounded the corner, her left ankle barely grazing the metallic shelf (the residence of many strange chemical bottles of unknown age and content), she wasn't as surprised as she might have been to see what she saw in the center of the little room.

_Now, do you understand? _The voice called pessimist asked her (as though it were a separate entity capable of just that). _Now do you understand why you must come?_

Eileen didn't want to nod, didn't want to understand...but she could, all the same.

There was the hole she had entered, way back a thousand years ago when Walter's world had almost claimed them both. It was no longer filled with that strange, black liquid...but an oblong metal protrusion in the shape of a haphazard cross--the kind that might be constructed by a particularly creative child who nonetheless lacked motor skills--still stuck out from the center of the hole.

And a man still hung on that cross.

He was tall, and somewhat muscular--nothing you'd see in an action hero or a heavyweight champion, but enough to add to his fearsome image--and his hair, having had time to grow unchecked for the last 10 years, stretched past his waist. It was parted in the center, however, allowing Eileen a clear and undesired view of the man's pale, doll-like face, with its eyes staring ahead, glazed, like sour white grapes.

Eileen heard a disconcerting sound, like an animal moaning...and then realized it was her own voice. She was mortified; it was a feeling very similar, she recalled, to the night of her 9th birthday, when she had stayed over at a friend's house and she and her friends had watched their very first R-rated movie...it was the feeling that movie had left her with, on that first night when her mind had been freshly exposed to pure, unadulterated terror...it was a feeling that made her wish she could see in all directions at once. A feeling of being watched from all sides.

"What...what _is_ this?" she asked, not sure to whom the question was directed.

She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, as though someone had just passed by, and quickly pivoted around, forgetting about the hanging body for the moment.

Nothing. Nobody.

"Jesus," she told herself. "Calm down, will you?" But then she recalled the body hanging from the cross--how could she have forgotten it, really?--and returned her gaze to that rusty metallic structure.

The man was gone.

Eileen gasped, and felt her entire body break out in gooseflesh. Her mind formed the picture of Walter, standing behind her, his dark, bloody bare hands outstretched as if to seize her by the neck, wring it until it snapped. "Oh, no," she whined, low and uncomfortable. She had a sick uncertainty that the body had gone down into the hole while she hadn't been looking...but that thought didn't have the same uneasy truth to it that her other thoughts did, so she figured it might have just been a hallucination.

Nonetheless, shaking her head, she began to approach the altar where the body had stood mere seconds before, and when she reached it, standing on the tips of her toes as if the floor were covered in something nasty, she peered down into it.

Blackness.

"Oh," she moaned, and it sounded unpleasant. It was blackness, just like before...but not liquid this time. At least, not completely.

There was a tiny slit running down the center of the hole.

"It looks like..." Eileen began, backing away, unable to finish the thought out loud...as if to say it out loud was to bring it into reality.

_Like an eye, _the voice named pessimist finished. _It's an eye...a closed eye...but not just any eye. _His _eye. And it's watching you._

Eileen shivered, wondering against her will what the "eye" would look like if it were to open.

_Close it,_ the other voice--optimist--said in a crude, visceral tone that scared Eileen more than it comforted her. Before, that had been the part of her mind that wanted to leave this place...but somehow, this room--this _thing_--had changed that. Now, she found, she actually _did _want to do something. Now that she was here, it wasn't so bad...was it?

She raised the pickaxe in front of her, wondering why she hadn't done so to begin with, and contemplated the thing in the floor. She could go ahead and smash it, destroy it here and now, and the voices would probably go away. That was what she had come to do, wasn't it?  
_Hell, you don't even know anymore, do you?_ she asked herself. _Do you even remember how you got here? What the hell made you think to do this? It makes NO SENSE, don't you see?!_

"Doesn't matter now," she said, feeling not at all like her normal self, and hefted the pickaxe, centering her aim on the eye-thing in the floor. Her mind panicked, forming pictures of what the thing would look like if and when it smashed open--what might come out of it--and before she could think anything else, she had dropped the axe, bent over and begun vomiting ferociously.

When she finished, she rose to her feet again. She was a bit shaky, but at least she could stand. She reached for the pickaxe, allowing her eye to wander back to the eye-thing...

...but it was gone. No more eye-thing. Not even a hole in the ground. Just a flat wooden floor, unbroken by that strange orifice. The crucifix still stood, however...and it was still empty.

_So, what? _she thought, confused as hell and a little angry, too. _I just imagined all that? Hallucinated it? _She reached down and picked up the axe, but it was slow going; her arms were still shaky from the cramps induced by her vomiting fit. _I must be going crazy, _she added apathetically.

She left the storage room, coming into the hallway...and was suddenly seized by an extremely violent headache. She cried out and dropped to one knee, clutching her forehead with one hand.

"_Damn _it!" she practically screamed, and stumbled forward, trying to reach her feet. When she failed three times, having stumbled nearly the length of the hallway, she reached out in front of her, flailing and desparate, for the edge of Henry's kitchenette counter. She missed, falling to the floor and smacking her face on the carpet. Her nose did not bleed, but she would have a red carpet-burn there for the next few days. She crawled forward, eventually regained her balance, and rose shakily to her feet. Approaching the couch in a slow, careful manner, she dropped herself down onto it and sat there for almost a minute, her eyes closed and her hands over her face.

What was she doing in here, really? Looking back on it, she couldn't even remember what had made her want to come in here so badly, despite her own vicious warnings against it.

_You know why,_ a new voice spoke from within her mind. It was neither optimist nor pessemist.

"What?" Eileen responded.

_You know exactly why you came here, _the voice continued. _You came here for _him. _You came here to--_

"No," Eileen insisted before the thought was even completely articulated. "No, I didn't come for that. I would never do that, especially not to Henry."

_But you must, _the voice said. _It's your purpose. You have to stop him. You have to help The Man._

'The Man?' Wasn't that a slang term for the government? Eileen shrugged, not caring. "I don't know what I'm thinking about."

_You do._

"Then what am I thinking?"

_I can tell you in this place._

"Really?"

The voice ignored her. _You have to help Henry. And you have to help the other. The girl._

"The girl..."

_Yes, the girl! The one that was you. The one who..._

"'Tu...Fui...Ego...Eris," Eileen whispered in a dreamlike slur, not even fully aware that she had spoken, and clueless as to the phrase's meaning.

_Yes, exactly! That is the truth._

"I have to save her, then?"

_Saving her is your priority. All other things are irrelevant...except for one thing._

"What one thing?"

_You must save Henry, as well. Save him before he does something rash._

"Save him from what?"

_You already know._

"No, I don't, I--"

_He's already begun to make plans. You knew that, or at least part of you did, and you have since the day he came to the hospital. He clutched his forehead then, remember?_

"Yes..."

_He said it was nothing, and then he walked back home with you._

Eileen said nothing.

_So go to him now, and take him away. Make sure he never does what he is planning to do. Then you can save her without fear._

"Save her...but to do so, I have to stop him?"

_Exactly._

"Because if he dies there, then all is lost."

_Yes._

"But if she dies there, then it can never be stopped."

_Yes!_

"And the Man doesn't know that, does he? That's what he told him!"

_Correct._

"The Receiver is...no, the girl...she is the Mother?"

_You know the answer to that._

"_I _am the Mother, aren't I?"

_You know the answer to that, too._

"I do, don't I?"

To this, the voice had nothing to say.

"I think I...I think I know what to do," she said, but already her voice sounded far away to her own ears. She felt very strange, very light-headed but also heavy-headed, like she had drunk an entire keg of ale. She stood up, stretched, listening to the tendons in her strained back and arms creak and hearing the bones crack. She reached down into the holster under her jacket, pulled out the massive gun, and held it by her side. She stood that way, contemplating, until her eyes wandered to the front door.

As she stood there, a mad smile crept its way onto her face and stuck there, shining like a black light.

"I will help him," she said, starting towards the door. When she reached it and her hand closed around the knob, it wouldn't turn.

No matter.

She raised the revolver and fired once, straight against the knob. It exploded off of the door, landing on the ground in a twisted heap of bronze metal. A jagged hole appeared in the sanded wood where it had once been, and without the catch to hold it closed, the door swung outward very slowly on its hinges.

Her grin widening and her thoughts merging into one constant, maddening chant--_Help him, I must help him and I must help her before it is too late, I must--_she raised one foot up and kicked the door outward as hard as she could. She uttered a primal scream as she did so, and felt a rush as the door almost flew off of its hinges. It slammed against the wall of the apartment complex hallway, leaving a flat scuff mark on the marble where its corner made contact.

"I'm coming," she said, grinning like a madwoman, her eyes filled with a red, insane fire, and she started down the hallway.

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**HENRY** and Douglas cleared the stairs leading up to the apartment's top floor two at a time--three, in Henry's case, since he was quite a bit younger and much more agile. It was probably this agility, paired with the uncanny speed at which he was able to think on his feet, that saved his life that afternoon.

Henry had reached the hall that lead around to the third floor, and had made good progress through it, when Douglas had just made it up the second flight of stairs. While Douglas was panting and huffing, trying not to lose what little breath he still had, Henry was starting up the last flight of stairs.

_Eileen, _he thought, his mind racing a million times faster than his feet would carry him, _please be alright, please._

He heard the double-doors on the third floor open, and saw Eileen's blue jean-clad legs stride out from behind them.

"Eileen!" Henry called up the stairs, and she looked down at him. "Hey, Eileen!"

Eileen looked at him coldly, saying nothing.

"Eileen, what the hell was that noise?" He started up the stairs.

"Jesus, Henry, look out!" Douglas called from behind him--the detective had caught up to him, but was now backing away and pointing up the stairs towards Eileen--and there was a loud report, followed by a high-pitched zinging sound. Henry felt heat on his right cheek that was the feeling of a narrow miss, and took a shocked step backward. It wasn't until he saw the gun Eileen was holding that he really began to be afraid for his own life, instead of hers.

She was clutching a massive .357 Magnum Revolver, with white nickel plating, and she had it pointed right at him.

"Oh, no--" Henry said, and almost tripped over his own feet when he desparately leaped to his left, taking shelter around the corner. He heard the click as Eileen chambered the next round, and heard soft clacks as she began to descend the staircase.

"What the hell is she _doing?!"_ Douglas asked, drawing his own pistol from the shoulder-holster beneath his coat. He pulled back the slide, cocking the weapon, and held it up beside his head with both arms. It completed the look of the 50's-movie detective, Henry thought absent-mindedly.

"Come on, Henry," Eileen said in a perfectly conversational tone of voice. Not at all like the voices of crazy people you saw in movies--none of that wavering tone that sounded like a very happy woman on the verge of tears, laughter, or maybe both--just the tone one might use when asking a friend to pass the salt, please, because my steak is a little bitter. "It's what you wanted."

Henry clasped his hand over the detective's gun. "Put that thing away," he said without much emotion, his eyes glued to the corner around which Eileen would come any second now.

"What?" Douglas responded, as if Henry had just suggested that he take off his pants and dance the Macarena. "That woman has a big gun, and she's shooting at us. That's good enough reason for me to defend myself, I think." He moved his foot to step past Henry, but Henry stopped him by raising the knee over which the man had intended to step.

"You might hit her!" Henry hissed.

"Your point?" Douglas stared him in the eye. "I don't think she's too worried about hitting us, you know."

"Just...let me try to talk her down. It's probably all the stress from the last two days." The words sounded ridiculous even to his own ears...but he would not let this man shoot Eileen. Not unless it was the last possible resort.

Douglas heard that last comment and reminded himself to ask Henry about it later, if they were both alive, perchance. He was very, very interested--in a sarcastic way--in learning about the kind of stress that drove a person to this over a period of two days. He shot Henry a disapproving look.

"We just need to--"  
"Oh, Henry..." Eileen whispered, and Henry was mortified to realize that he could hear that whisper. She was right around the corner.

"_Run!_" Henry said, and grabbed Douglas' upper arm. He took off down the hall, tugging the sleeve of Douglas' long coat all the while to keep him from falling behind. He looked ahead, and saw that the corner was just ten feet away...but a glance behind showed him that Eileen was now within sight.

Which meant that they were now in the line of fire.

"Henry, why are you running?" she asked, her meek voice reverbirating on the marble walls. Then, almost as if she were consciously aware of the irony the question presented, she pressed on the trigger.

Henry saw this--and saw that her gun was leveled almost perfectly with his own face--and grabbed the nape of Douglas' neck. "_Down!_" he shouted, and jerked the detective onto the ground. He followed suit, sliding on the leg of his jeans until the tip of his boot tapped the wall.

Another loud report issued from the revolver, and Henry saw a rather large crack appear in the marble just over his head. He saw the shell clatter onto the ground, its powder spent. That was incentive enough for him. "Come on," he said to Douglas without a second thought, and they rose quickly to their feet, darting around the next corner and out of Eileen's sight.

"Come back!" Eileen called, and started after them. Another click.

She had chambered the next bullet.

"What's the plan?" Douglas asked, holding up his own pistol. "You better start thinking, or I'm gonna start shooting."

Henry's head turned left, then right, and his feet shuffled nervously. "I...I don't know...I just..."

Loud, rapid footsteps. Eileen was running towards them.

"Forget you," Douglas said, and stepped around the third corner just as Eileen rounded the second.

Douglas and Eileen stood face-to-face.

"Put down the weapon," he said, leveling the gun with her own. He had a plan, but his aim had suffered with his age, and he wasn't sure if it would work. If not, he was very likely going to be grievously wounded, perhaps killed.

"Move," Eileen said, again with that calm, conversational tone of voice. "I need to speak to Henry." She started towards Douglas, the gun leveled.

Why wasn't she shooting _him_?

"Put it down, _now,_" Douglas commanded, but she ignored him. She came within ten feet of him...eight...six..."Drop it!" he said, his voice louder and more quavery than ever. Four feet...three...

Douglas fired.

The bullet went wild. It should have at least grazed her hand--Douglas had been aiming downward, toward her wrist--but it hit the wall behind her at an upward angle, as though he had fired from below eye-level. Which he hadn't.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said, "but if you won't move, then I'll have to." She raised the gun, and Douglas could only stand there, mystified.

Her _eyes._ Dear God, what was wrong with her _eyes?_

"Jesus," he said, and saw her place her finger over the trigger.

Henry slammed his body into Douglas, knocking them both to the floor, and Eileen's bullet sailed past Douglas' head, missing it by inches.

_That's four, _Henry counted in his head. _Four shots. That thing looks like a six-shooter...there must be two shots left. If I can just..._

"Douglas," Henry said, grabbing the man's collar and dragging him into the second-floor west wing hallway. He tackled the swinging double-doors with one shoulder and hauled the detective in after him, running on almost pure adrenaline.

"What?" Douglas asked, blinking hard--Henry's blow had stunned him for a moment. "Ideas?"

"Yes," Henry said, and shoved Douglas into the corner behind the door. That way, when it opened, Douglas would be safe and out of sight.

"What are you--"

"Just stay here," Henry said, cutting him off. "It's me she wants, not you. When I give you the signal, I want you to ta--"

Eileen burst through the double-doors, smashing the edge of one door into the left side of Henry's face. He cried out and stumbled backward, clutching his newly bleeding mouth. He muttered a silent curse and tried to straighten up.

"There you are," Eileen said, raising the gun again. "Just stand still for a minute. This will only take a second..."

She raised the gun to Henry.

"Eileen, wait--"

Half a second before he saw her finger go down on the trigger, Henry slid to his right, almost tripping--if he _had _tripped there, he almost certainly would have died, as Eileen was already chambering the next round--as the bullet sailed past his vulnerable shoulderblade, missing it by less than an inch.

_Damn,_ she could aim. Where had she learned that?

"Damn it!" Eileen said, raising the gun again...but this time, Henry was close enough to reach her. He lashed out with one hand and seized Eileen's wrist--the one holding the gun--and tried to force it up over her head. Eileen grunted, resisting, and pushed back, trying to level the gun with Henry's head again (she seemed to have fixed herself on the idea of headshooting him). Henry succeeded in keeping the gun over her head for a few seconds...but then, through some inhuman feat of strength, he felt her begin to overpower him. The gun came back down in a slow arc, Henry's hand pressing futilely against hers, until it was almost close enough to his head for the kill.

"_Douglas!"_ Henry shouted, his voice trembling as he tried to maintain his grip. "_Help me!"_

Douglas was dazed, but he wasted no time. He slid one arm under each of hers and lifted her up, creeping his wrist up her arm until he could grip the butt of the revolver she now held in a deathgrip.

"Let..._go!"_ Eileen kicked one foot back...and her heel made contact directly below Douglas' belt. He let loose a sound that was some combination of a grunt and a yelp, and let go of her immediately, his right hand shooting down to his injured area. He backed off, the wind knocked out of him.

"Oh...hell," Douglas gasped between breaths. How could things have gone so wrong so quickly?

Henry was standing about a foot from Eileen, having let go of her when Douglas had grabbed her. How could the detective have made such a foolish mistake? Hadn't he anticipated that groin-kick, standing as he had been? Oh, well...it wasn't important now. All that mattered now was relieving the woman that was no longer precisely his girlfriend of her shiny new toy.

_One shell,_ Henry thought. _I hope._

In a split-second, his eyes darted up the side of the gun--now that he was close enough to be able to see it clearly--counting the number of chambers on the side. He could see two on each side...that came to four in all. There were probably two more, if you counted the two that were probably hidden--the one that was currently chambered, and the one beneath that one.

He had to get that gun.

"Henry," Eileen said, raising the gun once again. "Just hold still. It won't hurt, I promise."

_Click._

Henry made his move.

He grabbed both of her wrists, trying to wrestle her again--he could think of nothing else to do, really--and when he felt her knee trying to force its way between his legs, he shielded it with his own thigh. If she got him, all would be lost.

"Eileen, damnit!" he said, not quite raising his voice. "Snap out of it!"

Eileen whined and bit him on the shoulder. Henry cried out, letting go of her left wrist. His left hand went up to his right shoulder--the bitten one--and he realized that he had only one more chance. Sure, it was drastic, but it was do or die time, and Henry preferred the former to the latter.

He twisted on the wrist he still held--_hard, _as hard as he could--and the bone snapped like a twig beneath his grip.

It wasn't the arm that held the gun, but Henry had hoped that it would be enough to slow her down, at least long enough for him to take the gun from her...but she simply glanced at the wrist...then up at Henry...and then she punched him in the face.

"That wasn't nice," she told him, the conversational tone gone from her voice. Now, she sounded like a scolding teacher dealing with a problem student. "You should play nice, you know."

The part that amazed Henry was, she wasn't being witty. She spoke each word with perfect sincerity, as though this truly were nothing more than a game, and Henry had broken the rules.

Well, he'd broken _something,_ that was for sure.

"What...the _hell?_" he whispered, and suddenly he was sailing across the narrow hallway. He hit the wall hard, landing at an awkward angle on his buttocks...and when he looked up, Eileen was standing with her gun pointed down at him, directly at his face. The hand Henry had snapped now hung limply like a dead fish...but still Eileen didn't seem to feel any real pain.

"Eileen--"  
"I promise," Eileen said. "I promise it's for your own good."

"_No!"_ Douglas cried out, but he could not reach his gun in time.

Henry squeezed his eyes tightly shut, expecting a painful but mercifully quick--albeit messy--death.

Eileen pulled the trigger.

_Click._

It was empty.

Eileen stood there for a moment, motionless, and then grinned. The fire in her eyes was clearly visible to Henry for the first time, and he felt gooseflesh break out all down his back and arms.

"Eileen, what happened to you?"  
She tossed the gun aside, no longer in need of it--she must not have loaded it completely, Henry thought, and blessed his luck--and knelt down before Henry. He tried to move to the left, but he wasn't fast enough. Eileen closed her fingers around his throat and squeezed tightly, beginning to sink her long, sharp nails into the soft flesh that was the only thing protecting his tender jugular vein.

"_Stop it right now, or I'll shoot!_" Douglas shouted, knowing that his warning would do no good. He had reached his gun, panicked at the sight of Eileen's gun as close to Henry as it had been. When it was confirmed that Eileen would not listen, he squeezed off two more shots. Both were dead on.

The first hit Eileen's right shoulder.

The second hit her in the back of the neck.

Douglas would later remember thinking that she might survive, but that it would be a close call. Whether or not he had been right would ultimately be debatable.

Henry's eyes, reddened by Eileen's tight grasp, opened one last time, gazing into Eileen's own blood-red ones, wanting to see her one last time before he died--he couldn't breathe, his chest was on fire, it was so goddamn _hot_--and then, miraculously, her grip began to loosen.

Her eyes blinked once. Twice. Then the color seemed to actually _run out _of them, like paint from an open bucket, and they were not red anymore but a deep blue.

"He...Henry?" she whined through a mouthful of blood--she was feeling the pain now, he felt sure--and then her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed in his lap. Blood trickled from the back of her neck and her shoulder, which was surely broken. Douglas' weapon may have been a measly nine-millimeter, but he had hit the joint in the dead center, like a true marksman.

"Eileen," Henry said, and shook her once. "Eileen, come on, get up!"

Douglas made his way toward Henry, and knelt down beside him. He watched Henry for a moment, and tried not to let the pity he felt show on his face.

"Henry, I'm sor--"

"Call an ambulance," Henry said in a sharp, emotionless tone. "Use my phone. Quick."

Douglas had time to think that Henry would have made a decent drill sargeant with that tone of voice, if only he could learn to really raise it, and then his mind registered what Henry had said and he leapt to his feet. He raced around the corner and through the double-doors, running up to Room 302 to use Henry's phone. It was the closest phone--the only other one was in the lobby, two flights of stairs down--and it would take more time to explain to someone on this floor why they needed the phone than it would to just run up to Room 302.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

He burst through the double-doors on the third floor without hesitation, so it was a good thing for him that nobody was standing on the other side--if somebody had been, he would likely have been sent tumbling head-over-heels to the floor. Of course, none of the residents had decided to come outside during the gunfire, having assumed that it was a gang-motivated shooting. A few of them had called 911, and if Herring had been on duty at the time, then things might have been a little different. Not enough to change what ultimately came about, but different.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**HE** dashed past the rubble that had been Henry's front door without a glance--he knew what had caused the damage--and into the living room. He glanced around, unable to locate the phone, and then thought that it might be in the bedroom. Of course; people hated to get a phonecall in the middle of the night and to have to get up and walk halfway across the house to get to it. Henry had probably just put his phone on his bedside table to avoid that. Douglas lurched down the hall, out of breath but pushing himself hard anyway.

Then he noticed the mess in between the bedroom and the bathroom.

A pile of large, white chunks of what appeared to be plaster lay in the middle of the floor, strewn every which way in such a way that only a large, blunt instrument could have done the damage. Douglas was curious and suspicious; people didn't make this kind of mess for just any reason. He started to enter the room...and then decided that it could wait. Eileen was in mortal danger right now, and even if she _had _been shooting at him, Henry seemed like he would have been able to justify it (_He better have a _damn _good reason, _Douglas thought as this idea raced through his mind). In any case, for now, the woman's safety was first priority.

Douglas opened the bedroom door with such force that he almost tore it off of its flimsy hinges; he immediately spotted the phone (trying to keep his eyes away from the queer photographs which lined the room, and from the red notebook, which sat on the table in the far corner) and darted over to it in a second, jerking it off of its cradle and punching the numbers _911_ with furious rapidity. When it picked up, he described the situation hurriedly to the man on the other end, and was told that an ambulance would be on the scene in ten minutes or less.

"It _better _be less," Douglas said to the man. "I don't think she's _got _ten minutes. Losing a lot of blood."

The man on the other end of the line sounded like he might have been about to say something smart...but then he decided not to. _And a wise decision that was, _Douglas thought, hanging up.

Coming out of the bedroom, Eileen's safety now taken care of as well as was possible, the hole in Henry's wall returned to the front of his mind (and how could it not, being at the front of his vision as it was?). He stepped over the pile of plaster and rubble, which stood guard before it like a sentry, and into the small room, wincing at the sudden, strong smell which became prevalent as he entered. He stopped for a moment and caught his breath--a task that he hadn't quite been able to juggle along with contacting the 911 officer--clutching his knees with his hands. When he had regained his breath--of which there wasn't that much to begin with, but enough to get by--he stood up, stretching, and groaned as his back popped several times. He cracked his knuckles twice as well, and then stepped around the shelf which obscured his view of the tiny room.

He let out a moan of disgust and horror when he saw the crucifix, old, rotten and disgusting thing that it was.

It must have been at least five, six, maybe ten years old. The hair on the thing was long, silvery and silky, like a woman's, and the fingernails were long and blackened with age. It looked almost like a vampire who had been staked through the heart...except he appeared to be smiling. If he was a vampire, or had been staked, then he had almost surely done it himself. No man caught by surprise--or against his will--would have been able to die with such a candidly..._beautiful _look on his face. It was both graceful and sickening at the same time, and that somehow made it worse.

Douglas heard the front door slam shut behind him, and heard Henry's voice float down the hallway.

"Hey, Douglas!" he called. His footsteps made fluffing sounds on the carpet that Douglas could hear all the way back here. "What's taking you so long?"

Douglas smiled dryly. "I think you should answer one question of mine first," he said, just loud enough for Henry to hear as he came down the hall."What the..." he heard Henry say from right outside the room. From the sound of his voice, he hadn't expected this hole to be here.

Perhaps he hadn't hidden it as well as he'd thought?

Henry came into the room slowly, as if he knew he'd done something wrong--or so Douglas read him. Henry stopped dead as soon as he lay eyes on the corpse hanging from the crucifix.

"Oh, hell," he said, and Douglas interpreted that to mean, _oh, hell, they found me out._

"I think you've got a little bit of explaining to do," Douglas told him, taking a step closer. "You want to tell me what this is about?" He flicked a thumb toward the body, but didn't take his eyes off of Henry. He suddenly didn't trust this guy, nice as he was...one...little...bit.

"I," Henry started, but couldn't seem to get his words together. "I mean...this is...remember what I said, about how...I killed..."

"I didn't know what to make of it," Douglas began, "when you said you killed that guy. I thought you might be making some kind of stupid joke." He reached into his coat and took out a pair of handcuffs. "But now I see that I may have underestimated you. Or at least misread. Unless there's a logical explanation for all this?"

"You don't un--"

"I guess that's what I get for letting my guard down," he interrupted, continuing. "Now I wonder about your connection with that woman." He twirled one of the handcuffs on his finger, like a cop in a western movie. He didn't seem to be portraying quite the air of superiority that his words connoted, but Henry was nervous as hell all the same. "Now, am I going to need these...or are you going to come along willingly?"

Henry's mouth hung open, but he didn't say a word. He was speechless.

"If you have nothing to hide--as you seem to be implying--then you shouldn't have a reason not to," Douglas added.

Henry's paralysis finally broke. "Okay, but you'll have to hear me out. It's a really weird--"

"Okay," Douglas said, seeming to deny the very affirmation he was making by saying so. "But any talking we do, we do downtown. Unless you have something you'd like to add." The detective regarded him with cold, expresionless eyes. The friendliness Henry had seen in them earlier was gone; now there were only the inches of hardened detective that hid that friendliness from the eyes of normal passersby.

Henry sighed. He looked at Douglas...looked up at Walter's ancient corpse (how was that thing still able to look so...well, the only word was 'fresh?' Wasn't it over 10 years old?)...looked back at Douglas.

"What's it gonna be, Henry?" Douglas asked, not moving. He stood still as a statue--as cliche as that was, Henry thought, there was simply no other way to describe the perfectly natural way the man just stood there, unmoving--waiting for Henry to answer in the positive, answer in the negative, or try to run.

Henry knew why Douglas was standing that way. He was focusing--getting ready to pounce, if need be. Henry knew there wouldn't be--he was not the kind of guy who would run from the cops, even if he did feel like he hadn't done anything--but the detective didn't know that. Hell, Henry had already confessed to murder.

Henry held out his hands, allowing himself to be handcuffed. As he did so, he heard sirens in the distance. He knew the sound--he'd heard the St. Jerome's' Hospital's only ambulance make its runs before--but for some strange reason, it made him uncomfortable today. Very, very uncomfortable. Like he should be afraid of it.

Steven would have understood.

END OF CHAPTER 9


	11. Herring's Story

**Chapter 11**

**Herring's Story**

_(Sirens fading in from the distance)_

_"Psycho therapy, psycho therapy, psycho therapy_

_That's what they wanna give me_

_Psycho therapy, psycho therapy, psycho therapy_

_That's what they wanna give me..."_

Psycho Therapy, _The Ramones_

_(Subterranean Jungle)_

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**_"EILEEN."_**

_She stirred a little within his strong arms, and her eyes fluttered open...but only a little._

_"Henry?" she said, so low and weak that it was almost a whisper. It was almost as if all of the nearly supernatural strength she had just exerted had been drained from this version of her self and given to the version that had existed just a moment ago, so that she was now powerless. "Henry, what's going on? My head hurts--"_

_"It's fine," Henry said, his voice low and unwavering despite the tension which coarsed through his body. "Douglas went upstairs. To call the ambulance. They'll be here very soon."_

_Eileen only looked up at him stupidly, uncomprehending. Had her consciousness been impaired by the blow? At first Henry hadn't thought so, but now he thought it possible._

_"How do you feel?" he asked in the urgent tones of a paramedic._

_"Not...well," she said, sloshing in his arms. "I feel...Henry, like...I'm going to die."_

Dammit,_ Henry thought, his eyes wandering up to the ceiling, _what's taking that detective so long?

_"Are you...are you going?"_

_Henry's eyes returned to her. He hesitated. "Do you think you'll be okay if--"_

_The double-doors behind them, the ones that led out into the main stairwell, were slammed open, and a little old man--leaned over almost to the point at which he looked like a hunchback--stepped through. "What in blue hell is going on here?" the old man demanded...although his voice was a bit too quavery to really demand much of anything._

_"Oh, good," Henry said, exhaling heavily with relief. So, at least one other person in the entire complex had set aside his cowardice for the moment. "Frank. There was shooting. Eileen's been hurt."_

_Frank Sunderland watched him for a moment, either dumbstruck or just ignorant (which one, Henry couldn't tell), and then stridled over to where Henry sat with Eileen. He knelt down beside her, examining the wound. Her chest rose and fell at weak, inconsistent intervals, as if each breath were a struggle. "Is she going to be okay?" Frank asked. Then, after a pause so long it felt like an eternity: " Hold on, I'll call an ambulance."_

_"I already have," Henry said, snatching the Super's sleeve as the man rose to his feet. "But I think something's up. Can you stay with her for a minute? Just until I get back?"_

_Frank looked at Henry...looked down at Eileen...looked back at Henry. "I can," he said, as though he had had to consider his physical capacity to do so before answering._

_"Thanks. I'll be _right back. _Don't go _anywhere,_" Henry said, already jogging towards the door with his head turned back. "Don't try to move her, either. Just wait until the paramedics get here."_

_The doors slid closed, their latches clicking, and Frank sat there with a wounded young woman in his arms. To think, less than ten minutes ago, he had been watching _Wheel of Fortune _on Pox 10._

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**FROM** there, Henry had gone up to visit the detective in Room 302...and to set into motion (or at least contribute to) the events which had led to his current situation.

He now sat in the back seat of Douglas' brown sedan, his hands cuffed behind his back. Henry thought that the detective was taking a pretty big risk, putting a handcuffed criminal in the back seat of his own vehicle--with no net to separate the cab from the back, if Henry had been a _real _criminal, he might have been able to do some serious damage, given the right timing and opportunity.

But he wasn't, so he didn't.

There had been no conversation since they'd left the apartment complex, and there wasn't any more until they got to the station. Douglas never looked back at him, either through the rearview suspended over the dash or on his own, although Henry's own eyes rarely left the back of the detective's head. Henry felt sure that Douglas could see him; although, if he didn't want Henry to know that, then he was doing a pretty shoddy job of hiding it.

_He's not hiding it,_ Henry thought suddenly, and knew it was true. Douglas _wanted _him to know that he could see.

Henry wasn't at all surprised.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**STEVEN** Denton staggered down the sidewalk that lined the service road, clutching his aching forehead as inconspicuously as possible (he didn't want to be mistaken as a druggie even though that was exactly what he was) with one hand and holding himself up with the other. He leaned against the brick building around which the sidewalk was wrapped, and was surprised to see that it read _South Ashfield Bakery._

Damn, South Ashfield Bakery? That was at least twenty blocks from the church. How long had he been walking? And where, exactly, were his feet taking him?

_Don't know, don't care,_ he thought, opening his eyes slowly. _As long as it's away from that place...and that...that _thing...

He stopped for the moment, leaning over as if he was about to vomit, and took a deep, focused breath. He let it out in a long, exaggerated sigh, wiping the sweat which had formed during his earlier encounter from his forehead. Had it been a hallucination, after all? He found that he either didn't care, or just didn't want to know. If he changed his mind, all he needed to do was go back to the rectory and see the thing's lifeless husk sprawled on the new carpet, that silky evening dress draped over that chalky pile of...well, draped over that pile, like a tarp over a corpse.

_I'll go, Father...but you'll follow. You and Him. Your faith will be your undoing, Father--_

_Shut up._

--o_r rather, your _lack _thereof._

Her words haunted him. It was almost as if they were living, breathing things, things that had followed him all the way here from the rectory. Did they mean something? Or were they just the mindless pratting of that monster which had claimed to be his lost Miriam? Steven felt pretty sure that the latter was not the case. _Call it a gut feeling, _he thought to himself as he stood up fully. And what of the reference to 'He?' His first thought had been that it was a reference to some person, some man...but as he'd wandered through the maze of streets, his mind had been gradually opened up to a much more sinister possibility.

Looking around, he saw the other landmark buildings on the block, and it once more occured to him exactly how far from home he was. He was also tired, and didn't really want to keep walking...but the alternative was to go back home to the rectory. And as nice a thought as it was to be lying in his own bed, Steven cringed at the thought of going anywhere near the place where that Miriam-thing (even if, he reminded himself, he wasn't entirely sure that it had been real at all) had been. No, for now he figured he'd just keep walking. Maybe something would occur to him on the way to wherever the hell it was he was going.

Then something did.

_It was like it was a dream, but it wasn't._

Who had said that? He'd heard those words recently...and quite recently, judging from the clarity with which they had been recalled. He thought back...

_It's like the story that man told me, _he thought suddenly, walking down the sidewalk. Trembling. _The man who confessed to me earlier. It's like what he said...like it was a dream, but it wasn't._

He had a vague memory of some man coming in--earlier today, he was quite sure--and confessing to him, but he couldn't remember much of that--he'd been stoned off his gourd at the time, having just gone through an 'emergency stash' to quash his hangover from earlier that day. It hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped, he remembered.

He had reached the end of the block, he saw as he looked up from the sidewalk. The walk/don't walk traffic light was currently highlighted on _walk,_ with a glowing green stick-man emblazened beneath the word. Steven glanced both ways down the street, saw that they were empty, and started across the four-laner.It _had seemed _an awful lot like a dream, but Steven knew it hadn't been one. Even so, his sense of what was real and what wasn't seemed to have been severely distorted by his encounter with "Miriam." He felt as though he couldn't even be sure that his nose was really there, on the front of his face where it had always been.

Just after he crossed the median and was halfway across the third lane, a brown sedan pulled around the corner rather excitedly. Its driver didn't even seem to see him, even as he (or she) rocketed towards him at better than fifty miles an hour.

Steven's hands flew up to his face--more of a reflex than an actual defense mechanism, for no man's hands had ever protected him from the brunt of such a collision--and darted for the sidewalk on the closest side. The driver saw him at the last second, widened his eyes (it was a man, after all, and a middle-aged one at that), and swerved in the direction opposite to the one in which Steven had fled. The man behind the wheel cast one nervous glance behind him, then drove on.

Steven raised his fist and unleashed a string of syllables that, truth be told, was not entirely appropriate for a man of his profession.

"_The sign says walk, you jackass!" _he finished, gasping for breath and clearly stunned, and became aware of his public location.

"Oh, dear..." he glanced around again, checking for observers...thankfully, this street was mostly empty, save for a single homeless man, who had been coming up the other side of the street in the same direction as Steven. The man, dressed in weatherbeaten rags from head to toe, had frozen in place, staring at Steven with wide eyes. Surely he had seen Steven's priest collar, and even more surely, he had heard Steven's harsh words.

"Stuff those eyes back in your head," Steven called weakly, and stormed up the street, not looking back. He was sweating terribly now, out of fear, nervousness, or embarassment, he was not sure.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**"YOU **almost hit that guy!" Henry said from the back seat, his voice sounding strangely calm in spite of his raised voice. "He was right in front of you!"

Douglas said nothing, but not because he was embarassed or angry. His eyes had been on the road, yes...but his mind hadn't. It had been focused intently on other matters.

_Like how that woman was able to deflect a bullet without even touching it? _he asked himself, remembering the way the bullet had ricoched off of _nothing _and missed Eileen completely. That hadn't been a rebound off of the floor or the wall; Douglas had aimed down at her wrist, and _it should have been a clean hit. _He should have hit her in the wrist...and yet he hadn't. And he had an idea that that had little to do with his aim.

_Or, how about the body in the closet? _He still held the picture of the man's body firmly in his mind--the pale white tone of the skin, the long hair, the blackened nails--and he wondered, above all else, why it had looked _exactly like _the man who was sitting in a jail cell less than two blocks from here (and, for a terrible second, Douglas found himself wondering if Henry had somehow gotten Walter out of prison, brought him up to 302, and crucified him, all since Douglas had left the station earlier today). But that wasn't even all of it. No, not by a longshot.

Earlier, during the interrogation of Walter Sullivan--whom Douglas had been _sure _was guilty of the recent murders--Walter had said in a perfectly calm and rational voice that he hadn't done it, and Douglas and his cronies had discarded that testimony right off the bat. Walter had denied everything, in light of the insurmountable evidence they had stacked on him--the fingerprints, the DNA, the weapons--which actually wasn't all that uncommon in this line of work; Criminals would deny until the day they were put away, and then it would hit them like a ton of bricks: not only that they _weren't _invincible, but also that they _were _vulnerable to the same laws as their fellow man. And then would come the pleas. But it was always too late. This case, though...this case seemed different, somehow.

Douglas hadn't actually been present at the interrogation, had in fact only heard second-hand reports of Walter's claims...but he _had _spoken to Walter later on (several times, in fact), and even though he had believed at the time that Walter was guilty to the core, he now felt a strange certainty deep in his heart--down below, in the place where his instincts lay--that there might, maybe, possibly have been just the _slightest _shred of truth to some of what he had said.

He had a feeling...it couldn't be, just _couldn't _be possible...but that didn't change the strong surety he had felt upon seeing that body crucified up on that makeshift cross.

It made absolutely no sense at all, at least not beyond bringing up the possibility that maybe Walter had been telling at least part of the truth...but Douglas had a feeling that, if they were to take the prints of that body, they would matchthe prints found on the bodies of the recent murder victims _exactly_.

_But that just can't be! _his rational mind screamed. _No two men in the world have the same set of fingerprints! There's _always _at least one microscopic difference...that's just stupid! Stupid and impossible!_ In the end, his years of training won over his suspicions and he was able to reassert the basic fact: Henry had a dead man in his closet, a man that shouldn't have been there...and until Douglas could ascertain that it was the work of another or a suicide, he would have to detain Henry on suspicion of murder. Douglas thought it strange that Henry had told him about the man's murder beforehand at all; He hadn't even denied it when Douglas had asked him point-blank. Either he was very, very stupid--which Douglas didn't believe, not one tiny bit--or he had a very interesting explanation for the body's presence.

Needless to say, Douglas had a feeling that Henry himself might have actually been the man who had killed those people. And he had a feeling that he was now holding a truly innocent man in jail.

_Oh, well_, he thought as he pulled to a stop at the intersection ahead; they were almost to the police station, and once he'd booked Henry and taken him through all the protocol, he would be able to get the answers he needed.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**"TELL** me everything you know."

_Ah, _Walter thought to himself, _now comes the next phase of the game._

"And what if I don't?" he asked, even though he had every intention of talking. He had grown somewhat fond of playing the 'incooperative spy in the torture chamber,' even though, as a wise man had once said, the time to use the fist had passed, and the time to use the feather had come. "What are you going to do, charge me with 'not cooperating with an officer?'" he babbled. "That would make sense, coming from you--It seems to me like you're willing to hit me with anything you can at this point." He leaned back against the concrete wall of the cell, sighing and smiling at this newcomer.

Officer John Herring had come rushing into the room about five minutes ago, and from the look of things, he hadn't had a very good day. The left shoulder of his uniform was frayed, with bits of a black powdery substance around the edge, as though it had been singed by something--perhaps a bullet?--and the knees of his uniform pants were very dirty. The threads on the right knee had begun to fray as well, as if the man had been crawling on his knees. Sadly, the story behind the officer's roughed-up appearance was one Walter looked forward to hearing. Had he truly nothing better to do with his time?

"Don't fuck with me," Herring spat, not moving any muscles except those necessary to move his mouth. He stared into Walter's eyes with a burning intensity that made him look dangerous, maybe even insane. "I know you know something. Your name's all over this for a reason, and I want to know what it is." He hunkered down a bit, so that he was at eye-level with Walter. "It's not a coincidence that you're here. Not at all. Is it?"

Walter smiled, shrugging. That was debatable, of course; There had been a reason why he had come to Ashfield--to speak with this Henry person--but as for there being a reason he was in this cell? Beyond the fact that he had simply been careless? No, he didn't think there was much of a higher reason for that. Not unless the overconfidence of a single man could be considered the work of a higher power, that was.

"What's wrong? You were quite the chatterbox when Douglas was in here." Herring's stone gaze refused to depart from Walter's face. Walter looked at him, saw that face, grinned nervously, and looked into the corner of the cell. He really wished the cop would stop fucking staring at him like that. He hadn't done anything wrong, for God's sake! If they were going to go ahead and try him for those murders, why did they continue trying to rattle him into a confession? If their case was as solid as they had said, then why did they even bother with him at all? Why not just get to the point, and get it over with? Save the whole city a lot of trouble?

_Because the murders would continue_, his inner voice spoke up. _Of course you know that...but so does he. At least, on some level. He knows that there's more to this than meets the eye. Whatever happened to him today, wherever he went...he found something out. Something he didn't want to hear._

"Let's just say...let's just say that I had a reason for coming into town today," Walter confessed, that shameful grin still on his face. "But it's nothing you would find interesting."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Herring said through his protruded jaw. His voice was not angry but very, very focused. "I think anything you could say to me at this point would be most interesting, indeed." He hardened his gaze on Walter even further...if that was possible.

"Hinkle-finkle-dinkle-doo," Walter said with a grin, but as soon as he looked back at Herring's face, he regretted saying so.

Herring's stare was still going strong...but he finally let up after another ten or twelve seconds. He stood up, looking away from the cell, apparently trying to calm himself down. He seemed awfully worked up for a man who had been so level-headed earlier...what had happened, Walter wondered? What had driven this man to act as he was? And why did he seem so certain that Walter knew something that he himself did not? He did, of course...but how did Herring know that? How could he be so sure?

Herring stood there, not looking at Walter but staring down the cell block in a meditative stance. He was rubbing his temple with one hand and holding on to the door of the cell across from Walter's with the other. He said nothing, and it was apparent that he had no plans to in the near future.

"Look, I was just messin' with you," Walter said at last, disappointed with himself for being played so easily but unable to stand the tension caused by this awkward silence. "What is it you wanted to ask me?" He had no idea why he felt so compliant--God knew he had plenty of reasons to be pissed at every person in the tri-state area--but just because he wasn't aware of a motive didn't necessarily mean there wasn't one, so in the end he decided to go with his instinct.

Herring looked over at him, apparently not sure whether to believe him or not. "Don't screw with me, Walter," he said in a soft, calm voice. "I don't feel like dealing with you today." He turned to face Walter completely. "Besides, what's to keep you from B.S.-ing me?"

Walter shrugged. "Not much, I guess. What, do you want to give me a polygraph, or something? 'Cause I mean, if you do, I'd like to know what's so damn important to make you come after me like this." He stood up and walked right up to the bars, paralleling his face to Herring's. "What happened when you went out earlier? Where did you go?"

"I'll ask you the questions, if you don't mind," Herring said, ignoring him. "I want to know everything you know about the Order. The cult from Silent Hill. And I want you to tell me right now." He paused. Then: "And throw in the stuff you didn't tell Douglas about. I want the whole story."

"What's in it for me?" Walter asked honestly, folding his arms. Honestly, he'd been a bit set off by that last comment. He _hadn't _kept anything from Douglas.

"A chance to prove yourself innocent," Herring said. "Maybe."

At that, Walter felt his heart kindle a little, and he couldn't help but flash Herring a hopeful look. Was that fire the fire of hope that he felt, burning faintly like a dying candle in the center of his heart? He thought so, but...

"What do you mean by that?" Walter asked, anxious.

"You first," Herring insisted. "Tell me what you know. And I'll tell you what you want to know. Rather, what you _need _to know."

Walter sighed...and opened his mouth to speak.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**DOUGLAS** led Henry through the lobby of the APD after his booking, past the registration desk and the rattled Officer Hamilton, who was still recovering from the shock of Herring's dismayed entrance. As soon as he laid eyes on Douglas, Hamilton was on his feet and around the desk.

"Mr. Cartland?" he said, his voice shaky and nervous. A large portion of the APD still viewed Douglas as an enigmatic, all-seeing Sherlock Holmes, a man capable of solving any crime in enough time to make a half-hour TV episode--perhaps a sitcom--out of it, and Hamilton still fit nicely into this category--Douglas was nothing short of Godly to this lowly rookie cop. "Mr. Cartland! Captain Herring wants to see you right away. He says it's very urgent. He--"

"I'll be there shortly," Douglas said, his voice low and tired. "I've got some pressing business of my own to attend to, if your eyes haven't told you already." He motioned to Henry, who raised his cuffed hands and smiled, waving a half-assed wave as though he were having his picture taken instead of being arrested. Douglas saw this out of the corner of his eye, but pretended not to.

Hamilton looked at Henry, seeming fascinated with Henry's reaction--he must have known that he'd done something very wrong, if he was so cheery...sort of like that creepy guy they'd taken in the day before, Walter Sullivan. That guy from that tri-state case from a few years back. Man, to think they had finally caught him! It was so hard to believe that--

Douglas walked off, rolling his eyes at the rookie cop--on second thought, his other business could wait; he thought he would probably just toss Henry in the can for the night and go see what Herring wanted. He didn't know why he felt so ornery all of a sudden, although he was pretty sure that the evening's shocking discoveries, one right after the other, had probably had something to do with it. That, and the way his entire perception of everything that had happened so far had suddenly changed. Suddenly, it seemed that the APD hadn't had a clue what they were doing from the beginning. To think, that might not even be the murderer sitting there in that cell now! Wouldn't it be just dandy if it turned out that they had not only chased, but also arrested, roughed up, and relentlessly harassed a perfectly normal, law-abiding college student? Wouldn't it just?

Of course, that still didn't explain how Walter had known Henry's name.

"Mr...Mr. Cartland?" Hamilton called after him half-heartedly; he knew the man wasn't going to answer. Hamilton waved a hand dismissively at the detective's back as he led Henry into the cell block (of course he did it to Douglas' back; nobody on the force, save for Herring, was quite brave enough to do anything to Douglas' face that might be construed as a contest. It wasn't so much that he had actually _done _anything as it was that the rookies on the force had overplayed his role in prior cases--it could have been said that Douglas Cartland was somewhat of a legend among rookie cops).

Although logic screamed at him that the man who had been sitting in that jail cell for the last two days _had _to be the murderer they were all looking for--insisted repeatedly that those prints belonged to Walter, and Walter alone, and that the blood splatters found at the crime scenes matched perfectly to samples taken from Walter a few years ago at St. Jerome's Hospital--his cop's instinct told him to keep his mind open, especially since he'd found Henry's little toy in that back room.

And his instinct had rarely failed him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**BY** the time the sun had almost completely set below the horizon, Steven Denton had regained most of his composure. He was no longer trembling, and the warble of those air-raid sirens had all but vacated his memory. Now, they just seemed like the after-effects of some sick dream, a kind of super-nightmare...but nothing more. The same went for the Miriam-monster. Although the words she (it?) had spoken to him still hung in the back of his mind, they no longer troubled him so. He figured that they would again, in time, but until then he would savor this peace of mind.

Hands in his pockets, Steven strolled down the sidewalk on Christophe Street, watching his black boots as they scraped the concrete. Where was he going? What was he doing? Better question: What the hell was he _thinking? _Before he did anything else, he warranted, he would have to decide one thing: Had his experience in the rectory been a dream...or had it been real? Until he could answer that, he felt that he would not--should not--do anything. Not as long as he was so challenged by reality as he was at this moment.

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the sound of an automobile engine, idling around the corner. He looked up...and saw the same brown sedan that had almost run him over at the intersection, a few blocks ago. Less than five minutes, that had been...and yet, he was now ahead of the vehicle again. How was that possible? The thing had passed him before, going down the street...unless...

Unless it was tailing him.

Steven was suddenly overcome with a wave of paranoia. It seemed that every shadow, every corner, every sound, every voice, was directed at _him, _was talking about, thinking about, planning about, attacking _him. _He shrank back as he passed a narrow alley; the alley had turned a deep black in the absence of the evening sun, and he could just make out the shape of a man--no, a boy, maybe a teenager--from the corner of his eye.

"Hey," a voice said to Steven, and he almost jumped. He turned his head to the left, into the alley...but he kept his neck tucked into the collar of his shirt, as though the voice's owner might try to slit his throat as he turned.

"Can...can I help you?" Steven said, swallowing, trying not to show his fear. He was sweating badly, despite the unnatural evening cold.

"Got any spare change?" the boy asked him, standing just on the edge of the shadows. Steven made himself turn to face the child who had addressed him, and saw that he had little to fear: the kid was nothing but skin and bones, with rags to round off the image.

_That doesn't mean I don't have anything to fear, _he corrected himself. _That actually makes it worse. If he's starving, for instance? What might he do to me then? He could have a knife in the hand he's got stuck up under his shirt right now, for all I know._ Nevertheless, he reached into his pocket, grabbed a handful of nickels, and started to open his hand to the boy...and then he halted.

"Mister?" the kid asked, sounding a bit impatient. Like he had any right. "Mister, you got anything? Spare change?" He reached out his free hand--_Free hand means his other one's busy, _Steven thought uncomfortably--and clasped his fingers together. Open, closed. Open, closed. Just like Miriam had done.

Just...like...Miriam...

He shook the thought from his mind. It was a senseless chatter, the voice of the damning little sparrow that lived in the back of his mind, whispering of doom where there was none. It was just the aftermath of the "freakout" over his confrontation with "Miriam," that was all.

_Then why do I feel so afraid, now?_

Steven clenched his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and opened them. When everything was the same as it had been when he'd closed them, he was able to relax a bit and open his hand.

As soon as the child saw the tiny mound of nickels--surely no more than six or seven--his eyes lit up, and he snatched them from Steven's hand. "Thanks, mister!" he exclaimed, and disappeared into the shadows from whence he had come. There was now a jingle in his step as the nickels clattered together in his tightly made fist, but soon even that faded.

As soon as the boy was out of sight, Steven allowed a relieved smile to cross his face. He sighed--also a sign of relief--and resumed walking down the sidewalk. What had begun as a terrified flight from the Rectory had gradually evolved into this placating stroll down Cristophe Street, it seemed.

He reached the end of the sidewalk, stopped, and took a glance behind him. Nobody was out, of course; it was already ten o'clock p.m., and in this part of the city, no very intelligent man or woman would be caught out in the night. Not just because of the chances of being mugged, either.

"Guess that says something about _my _smarts," Steven jeered at himself, and chuckled weakly. It wasn't really the kind of night for chuckles, but he felt like one all the same, even though doing so made him feel as though he had violated some sacred rite...as though this night had been specially reserved in advance with a big, bright neon sign which read _NO LAUGHTER._

Hands in his pockets, he crossed the street after three seconds' wait. No cars were coming, of course. This had nothing to do with the crime rate, unlike the lack of nighttime pedestrians, although that never crossed Steven's mind.

Continuing along the other side of the road, he glanced up at the sky, looking for the North Star. When he couldn't find it, he squinted his eyes and scanned the entire sky, with a "hmm" barely audible on his breath. He saw, with some faint emotion that might have been dismay, that there were _no _stars in the sky tonight. But hadn't he seen a nest of them up in the great night sky, just half an hour earlier? He thought he remembered looking out the window in the Rectory and seeing the Big Dipper--or maybe it had been the little dipper--but those memories had been tainted by drugs and couldn't really be trusted. Well, since there was nothing up there now, he assumed that he had either been hallucinating when he'd "seen" the stars, or that he'd had a false memory just now. He supposed it didn't matter; what wasn't there now, wasn't there now, and that was all there was to it.

Steven slowed his pace as he passed by the Chip's Hardware Store on Hyman Street, his eyes drawn to the window. What he saw there wouldn't have caught his interest on any other night, but for some reason his eye had fallen on it tonight, and now he stared at it with a bored expression on his face, the way a student may stare at a drawing on the blackboard as he sits, bored, in his desk.

It was a big red chainsaw, with a handle so comically misshapen that it looked like some kind of medieval gas canister, if there ever had been such a thing. It was painted the dark red of blood--an ominous color for such a device, Steven mused--and the blade was a hefty sixteen inches long. All along the blade was written the word _Deathhammer._

"Death...hammer?" Steven muttered, disbelieving. Was there such a brand of chainsaw? He thought there might be, but the name didn't sound at all familiar. Sounded a bit too much like a murder weapon, as opposed to the woodcutting instrument that it was. A deeper voice, perhaps his conscious or perhaps the voice of intuition--or perhaps just his own paranoia--whispered of a darker, more malicious possibility, but his conscious mind refused to acknowledge it. All the same, though, the comically huge red chainsaw with the steel-plated blade continued to stare out at him, mesmerizing him.

In the glass window of the shop, Steven had been able to see the reflection of the streetlight when he'd first looked in at the chainsaw. Now, just a few inches below that of the light, he saw the reflection of some other vague shape, moving in the darkness behind him. Well aware of this neighborhood's reputation (and paranoid) as he was, he pivoted to face the source of that reflection.

Across the street, sitting on the stoop of some building--it looked like an apartment, or maybe a low-income housing project, as it was made of filthy brick--was a person, the gender and age of which was undiscernable in this light and at this distance. It could have been a black man as old as Steven himself, or it could have been a white girl no older than six. All Steven could see with any certainty was that the figure seemed to have some object clutched in its hands, and seemed to be playing with it, twisting it back and forth and occasionally slapping it on the side of the stoop, seeming to explore it. The object was large and oblong, and it ended in five large spines, like a tree branch with many small tributary limbs. Steven squinted his eyes and leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the figure.

The streetlight over Steven's head cut off abruptly, and Steven had to stifle a scream. It had startled him badly, as he'd been expecting to be rushed from behind at any moment (part of him had thought that this figure at which he was now staring might have been a gangster). Panting rapidly, he waited, took a single deep breath, and let it out, attempting to slow his heart rate a little bit. Now the street was almost pitch-black, without any streetlights or starlight to go by, and he could barely see his nose in front of his face. The only light to see by was what little light reflected off the night sky from the city lights on the far horizon.

The figure across the street--still age- and sex-indeterminable--stopped toying with the strange thing it held, and glanced up at Steven. With something like disgust, Steven saw its face and recoiled. His back banged up against the glass window of the shop, making a soft _plonk _and shaking the sheet glass in its frame.

The figure's face was gaunt and white, smooth, almost like a really good Halloween mask. Its cheeks were sunken and drawn-down, leaving small gaps beneath its eye sockets. Perfectly round white eyeballs stared out at Steven from that emaciated face, and above them the browless forehead continued on for several inches before rounding off and becoming the thing's--_person's,_ Steven reminded himself, _it's just a person, albeit a strange-looking one--_hairless forehead. Its cheeks were each bisected by a long black shadow, the result of skin which has been drooped over one's jaw like a tarp hastily drawn over wood during a rainstorm. Seeing that, Steven got the feeling that, if he felt so inclined, he could remove the person's skin from his (or her) face just by tugging at it, like a child's Halloween mask.

Now that his eyes had adjusted, Steven could make out more details than he had been able to even in the light--a strange thing, he thought, considering his distance from this person--including the long duster the thing wore. _A_ _duster, _Steven mused, _just like in those old Western movies! How comic!_

But there was nothing comic about the ghostly way the thing

(_person person person!)_

Rose to its

(_his! his! his!)_

feet, the way the duster billowed out behind it

_(him him him!)_

as its knees straightened out beneath it. For a moment, Steven actually felt sure the thing would rush him, but it only stood where it was, the lower half of its face from the nose down covered by the duster's cape, which it had curled over its face like Batman about to strike...and then, Steven came to a horrible realization.

The object it had been playing with was not an object at all. It was a hand.

It wasn't a _human _hand, at least like any human hand Steven had ever seen. It was long and sleek, white and smooth, like a plastic hand...just like a child's costume. It became apparent to Steven that this thing reminded him very much of a Halloween costume he had once worn as a child, a costume that he had even scared himself almost to tears with, but that his mother had forced him to wear anyway. It had been a homemade costume, a hideous thing, and he had gone practically screaming into it, but he had worn it all around town that terrible Halloween, just the same.

As this thing seemed to be doing tonight. But Steven knew it was no costume.

The hand belonging to this person (_thing_, Steven now told himself, not wanting to think of that thing as human anymore) was long and bony, and ended in five massive, inhuman fingers, each easily six inches in length and each of which ended in a curled, arthritic claw. The claw-hand lay limply at the thing's side, as though it was dead. It probably was, from the look of it.

Steven started to look away, disgusted and terribly afraid, but just as he moved to turn his chin away from the standing figure across the narrow street, its other arm--the one that wasn't a giant hideous claw--flew up and pointed itself directly at Steven.

"_Ressheeva,"_ it whispered in a low, chalky voice. A shockwave seemed to rush up its arm from its shoulder, and the hand twitched demonically in the dead night. Steven felt his spine chill and his heart run cold. "_Ressheeva," _the thing repeated. "_Shaybe yon Ressheeva, un shaybe die sheb._" The hand twitched again, and Steven couldn't help but cry out in disgusted horror. He turned his head away. After a moment he forced himself to look up.

The thing was still standing there. Still pointing.

"Jesus," he said to nobody, already feeling ashamed for invoking his Lord's name in this accursed place where things such as yonder goblin were allowed to roam. "Christ on his throne," he added, and turned away. He made haste around the corner and glanced up at the street sign, barely able to read the letters in the blackness of the night.

He was halfway down Gainsborough Street when he heard the voice behind him.

"Steven," the voice said conversationally, and then there were footsteps.

Steven resisted his deeply ingrained urge to stop and turn at the mention of his own name--it was almost a reflex, and it was a miracle that he had been able to still it by sheer force of will alone--and instead kept walking. He picked up his pace a little, his chest filling with a dreadful uncertainty (it was actually more of a certainty that made it dreadful, but Steven wasn't about to admit to that). When he'd heard his name, he'd felt a strange surge deep in the bottom of his mind, like some ancient memory trying to resurface. He hadn't recognized the feeling, not exactly, but he'd known it was not a good one. And for that reason--and that reason alone--he had halted the urge to turn around.

There were questions which tore at his mind, questions which threatened to be asked, like what the owner of the voice might look like (his morbid curiosity begged him to turn around and bear witness to his pursuer, although he shivered just thinking about it)...but Steven would not allow them, would not permit them, to be asked. Now was not the time for questioning; now was the time for acting.

"Where are you going?" the person behind him asked, his footsteps falling in time with Steven's own. "Steve, come on! I was just kidding!" The footsteps picked up their pace, and began to get closer.

Turning the corner onto Gerald Street, Steven made his own feet move faster. He kept his hands down at his sides, and they swung back and forth as he walked, but only very slightly. His arms remained tense, and would continue to do so in the event that sudden action was needed. All of a sudden, this situation was reminding him of his encounter with Miriam, and he didn't like it one bit.

"I know you hear me," the person, whom Steven now knew to be a man (his voice was very familiar to Steven, although the priest couldn't quite say from where), said from just around the corner. His voice had lost its conversational tone, and now sounded just the slightest bit urgent. "Come on, Steven, slow down!"

Steven did just the opposite--he started walking faster. When his heart began beating too quickly, he started to whistle the guitar-tune to some song he'd heard way back in college, when he'd been a straight-A English major--_babababababa bum-bum, babababababababa bum-bum, babababababababa bum-bum, bum baba bum baba bum babum--_and sped his pace up to that of a speedwalker, like the one which frequented Steven's own neighborhood on some evenings before it became too dark.

He reached the end of the street and stepped out into the middle of the road, crossing without a glance either to his left or to his right. No cars would be there, of that he was certain...and he had a sinking feeling that no cars would be coming for awhile. Whatever the end, he was alone now. Completely, utterly alone...except for this person

(_thing)_

on his trail.

"Steven, stop playing around with me!" the man said, and Steven was alarmed to note that the voice actually sounded _closer,_ as though its owner was _gaining_ ground on him as he sped up. "I just want to see you for one minute!"

"Go away," Steven whispered, wanting to shout it out but not quite willing. He was very afraid now, and was becoming more so with each step he took. He was not going to outrun whoever this was; of that he was now sure. There were only two choices left: keep running until he was caught...or turn and stand his ground. Perhaps it would only turn out to be a mugger?

But what he heard next immediately cancelled that thought. He heard a sound like some kind of large, meaty zipper coming loose--would have assumed it was the fly of some pervert coming down, had it not that sticky, grisly quality to it--and, immediately following, a loud, wet smack on the sidewalk. Then, the voice spoke once more...but it was no longer the voice of a man.

"_Steven,"_ the wet, slopping thing said from behind him in a high, choked wail. It sounded like a child who has swallowed some kind of poisonous household cleaner which has, for some reason, begun to bubble in his throat. It was a horrible sound, and it made Steven want to tear the ears right off of his head...except for the fact that, if he did so, he would no longer be able to judge the distance of the thing which now pursued him. Although he doubted his ears were being of much help right now, anyway--as it were, he could tell that the thing was close, but not _how _close.

_"Steven, it was your idea! Why are you running?_" Now, perversely, that voice had begun to sound like that old TV character, Alf. The puppet monster of which Steven had been so mortified as a child. That deep, throaty quality had been in Alf's voice, and it was now in the voice of the thing behind him. Only Alf's voice had actually had some kind of humorous effect to it. In this thing, though, there was no humor...only a visceral desire to inflict pain, maybe death...maybe worse. That, and that disgusting, fleshy sobbing.

"Go home," Steven said without turning around, this time able to project his voice just a little bit. It carried none of the authority with which he had ordered Miriam from his home, but it was better than the puny whisper he had barely been able to manage just moments ago. "Go home and leave me alone. Go back to where you came from!"

But that slimy smacking noise--its "feet," slapping the pavement as it tried to keep up with him, sounding more like some kind of deformed flippers instead of feet--continued; in fact, sped up. Now its pace matched Steven.

And it was getting closer.

Steven continued at his slow pace that was almost a jog until he reached the corner of Arrold and North. Then, just after he'd turned left onto Arrold, he broke into a run.

"_Hey!_" the voice behind him--now buzzing and rising in pitch, displaying real frustration for the first time, or perhaps even anger--shrieked, and the series of wet smacks increased in frequency...continued to do so...until the "steps" were so rapid that they sounded like a bag of dead fish being dragged down a rocky slope. No human could run that fast, Steven was certain. _"Hey, come back! STEVEN!"_

Steven heard those sticky sounds closing the distance between them, gaining on him, and resisted the urge to scream. No, he wasn't going to scream. Not out here. In the Rectory, that had been one thing...but out here was a completely different story. He supposed that he would be able to explain it later, if asked about it, by saying that he had been mugged, but somehow he didn't think that would hold. Especially not if he screamed the way he wanted to. No, people would connect that scream with a more mortal crime...perhaps a gruesome murder.

_Don't be silly, _Steven thought to himself. _In this neighborhood, nobody can hear you scream._

And it was true, wasn't it? Somehow, this neighborhood had been cut off from the world as he knew it, it seemed. This neighborhood was completely deserted, not a car to be seen and not a light on anywhere, both of which were very uncommon aspects of such a city as Ashfield. Yes, something was most definitely wrong here. If he needed any further proof, he needed only to (God forbid) turn and face his harrier.

_Well, on the other hand, at least I know I wasn't dreaming back there,_ he thought to himself, and actually almost laughed. He restrained himself, though, for if he began to laugh, he would surely lose the strength in his legs, and then he would stumble, and then the thing would be on him. And that would be the end of Father Steven Denton as known by the Parish of South Ashfield's St. Jerome's Church of Christ.

_"You can't back out now, Steven!" _the buzzing, sloshing, smacking thing shrieked, buzzing its high, warbling buzz like some inhuman insect which has drowned in mud and somehow come back to life a hundred times its size. "_No, you can't ever back out, not now! It was your idea! IT WAS YOUR IDEA, STEVEN!!"_

Steven felt the first tears of sheer terror coarsing down his cheeks, and he screamed the scream of a little girl who has been surprised on the playground--perhaps with a severed dog's leg--when he felt the sticky thing's

(_fin? tentacle? leg? pincer?)_

appendage slap the back of his ankle and then slide off. He fought the urge to pull his ankle close to his chest and slap the slimy residue it left off of his boot, the way a schoolgirl might slap at an invasive cockroach, and forced himself to run as fast as he could. He was panting badly now, and the thing was even closer--he could feel little tendrils of slime (or was it saliva?) landing on the back of his neck and coat, having been flung from the sticky

(_mouth)_

hide of this monstrous thing in its pursuit.

He thought that he was going to make it to the end of the block; he really thought he was going to make it to the end of the block. All he needed was a few more feet, just another breath or two...

But he was wrong.

The sounds began, far off in the distance, and as soon as Steven heard those sirens, the strength seemed to run out of his legs like Kool-aid from an overturned pitcher. He stumbled, almost tripped, caught his balance...and then tripped again. This time, he didn't catch his balance.

The sticky thing bore down on him, and even as it wrapped the first of its

(_feelers?)_

tentacles around Steven's ankle, even as the strange, vile fluid which coated the thing oozed down into the priest's boot, he could not manage a scream. He felt as though all of his breath had been sucked out of him unceremoniously by some titanic vaccum cleaner.

From above, one could have watched as a black, slithering abomination--the only accurate word available to describe it being 'shape'--descended on Father Steven Denton, appearing to cover the lower half of his body with a black mass, as the eardrum-blasting howl of those demon sirens continued, piercing the once quiet night with the screams of the damned, as the evil which slept in a small resort town not half a day's drive from here began to twitch restlessly in its nightmare-riddled sleep.

_"Thhow zhaaalld resheeveth."_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**THE** roof of the APD was cold and the wind was sharp, but Douglas didn't care. There wasn't much he did care about, at least not anymore. Not after all that had happened today. All he'd had was his rep, and soon that would be in shreds as well. They had the wrong guy, and now he was sure of it. The Walter Sullivan that had been rotting away in the jail cell downstairs for the past two days wasn't their man. He was just as he'd said: a normal college student, who had the terrible misfortune of having the same name and--even more perplexing--what seemed to be the same fingerprints as the murderer who had used those weapons. But other than that? Zip. Zilch. Nil. Nada. The guy was clean, as the cops of his day and age would have said.

"Damn it," he said, and took a pack of Swisher Sweets from another inside coat pocket, plucking one from the half-empty box. He tucked it in between his lips and cocked it upward using his jaw so that it protruded upward, like the cigarette of a mobster in some 50's movie. With the other hand he drew a lighter from yet another of the jacket's inner pockets, and he lit up easily despite the torrential evening breeze. The sun was already setting in the sky to the west, turning it a hazy red-orange. Normally, the sight would have seemed peaceful, perhaps even romantic...but not tonight. Tonight, there seemed to be something almost threatening about that orange glow...something hungry.

Douglas supressed a jump when he heard the stairwell door slam shut behind him. He heard hard, clicking footsteps and jingling. Herring, in uniform.

"I figured you'd be up here," Herring spoke from behind him. The captain passed around Douglas and leaned against the edge of the building with his arms folded in a weak imitation of the detective. "What's the deal with the guy you brought in? You seemed pretty distracted."

Douglas didn't reply at first; just tossed the dying butt of the cigarette he'd already finished over the edge of the building. He watched disconnectedly as it floated down, carried by the cold breeze into the street. A car passed over it, smashing it flat into the pavement. When he sighed, his breath was visible as a thin, warm vapor. The wind carried it away, as well. Just when Herring had almost given up and decided that he wasn't going to answer, Douglas spoke.

"That's not the guy," he said. His voice was raspy and tired, the voice of an old man who is far past the appropriate age of retirement. To Herring, the man seemed to have aged a hundred years in the past two days. And he had a feeling that it couldn't be entirely blamed on Walter Sullivan, either.

"What?" Herring asked. He hadn't connected the statement with Walter. "Who's not our man?"

"Walter," Douglas half-said and half-exhaled, lighting up another cigarette. "Smoke?"

"No, thanks," Herring said, raising a hand in negation.

Shrugging, Douglas stuffed the cigarette in his mouth.

"You smoke too many more of those things, and you'll be retiring a bit sooner than you'd like," Herring said, half-joking. "There's a good reason they call 'em cancer sticks, you know."

Douglas didn't react at all, just stared ahead.

"What did you mean, Walter's not our man? You said it yourself, he's got the same prin--"

"It's not the right guy," Douglas interrupted. His tone had sharpened a bit, but his voice was still soft and low. "I don't know how, and I don't know why, but he's right. He hasn't done anything wrong, other than running from the police. And after the way you guys treated him ten years ago, I'm not surprised he did even that."

"Hey, that's not--" Herring tried to break in.

"He probably figured he was screwed from the beginning," Douglas continued, ignoring him, "so he decided to go ahead and have fun with it. And why not? He knew he was almost surely going to get life, anyway. We've got enough evidence to put him away for _ten_ lifetimes, and he doesn't even know what half of that evidence is." He tapped the edge of the cigarette on the ledge, allowing the wind to carry away the ashes that fell from its tip. "And I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't know that half of it even existed at all. Because he wasn't at any of those crime scenes."

Herring was already shaking his head. "How can you know that? And worse, how can you say that, how can you even _think _that, after we spent so many hours going through all of the evidence until we were sure he was the right guy?" A short pause. Then: "And if he's not our man, then who is?"

Douglas looked at Herring. On his face was a haunted expression that Herring had never seen on his face; It made his skin crawl. "I'm not really sure, but I have a nasty feeling about that guy I just brought in. He's not the kind of guy you'd suspect, but then, it's _never _the guy you'd suspect." He really only said this to comfort himself; nine times out of ten, it _was _the guy you expected. The killer being the last person anyone suspected may have been true on rare occasions, but in Douglas' experience, that was usually a drama best left to the TV shows. "Name's Townshend. Henry Townshend. Found a body in the closet of his apartment. Remember the tattoos on the other victims' bodies? The numbers?"

Herring nodded with an anticipation that Douglas could read easily.

"Well, Henry's little pet had 11/21 carved on his feet. Just like the others. And he was strung up on some cross, too. I think our pal Henry might just be keeping some special interests on the side, if you know what I mean."

Herring's brows raised. He was almost sure that the detective had just hinted at necrophilia, but he wasn't entirely so, and he didn't want to ask. Not only would it be awkward...but he also didn't really want to know.

"He wasn't raping them, if that's what you're thinking," Douglas said, as if reading the run of the officer's thoughts. "But I think he did something to them. Our cleanup guys found some weird toys in that room--a black cup made of obsidian, a bottle of some white liquid--" Douglas saw the way Herring's brow shifted when he mentioned the liquid. "That's what we thought, too, but it turned out to be a foreign kind of tea. Hallucinogenic tea. I forget what they called it, exactly...you know, that stuff there was an uproar about the Native Americans using for their rituals a few years back. They used it in some kind of religious ceremony, and the U.S. Government didn't like the implications of that, so they tried to ban it."

"Peyote?" Herring asked, his brow flicking rapidly up and down in a subconscious (but nonetheless comic) motion of uncertainty.

"Yeah, that's it!" Douglas said, snapping his fingers. "They also found this weird book of rituals. _Crimson Ceremony, _it was called. And one more thing..." Douglas turned on the ledge of the building as he said this, so that he now stood facing Herring. "They found a rather nasty implement that looks sort of like a homemade saw. But it's not like any saw I've ever seen." Douglas extended his arms far out to either side of his body, miming as though he was carrying a long, narrow object. "Longer, wider, and more stout. Heavy as a sonofabitch, too. It looks like something out of a slasher movie. We think he might have used it as part of some kind of ritual--it looks way too big to use as an actual weapon, and the physics of it are all wrong. Hell, the handle's too small to support the thing!" He laughed heartily, feeling his good cheer beginning to return for no apparent reason.

"Crimson Ceremony," Herring mused, feeling the words rolling off of his tongue. Sounded familiar. Probably was, considering how much his unit had dealt with the Order in that crazy town, Silent Hill.

Silent Hill...where he'd gone today.

"Douglas," Herring said with a half-sigh. "I think I have some information that's going to bust your balloon." He backed away from the ledge, hands on his hips.

Dogulas' grin faded as quickly as it had appeared. He turned his head towards Herring, but asked no questions. The look on his face was inquiry enough, although it was a bit too fierce to be simple inquiry. It looked more like demand.

"Seems we've got another case to work on," Herring continued, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to the northeast, "over in Silent Hill. Something really fishy's going on out there, and I think it bears investigation."

"What happened?" Douglas asked without hesitation.

"It's kind of a long story," Herring pleaded.

"I got nowhere to go."

Herring shook his head. "Not here. Let's go downstairs. I think there's somebody down in cell block who might want to hear this."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**HE** was in the Bad Place._

_It wasn't the Bad Place from before, but much worse. Before, there had just been those _things._ Now, the whole place seemed to have changed into something out of a nightmare. He was standing in the middle of a street that did not look familiar to him at all, which was strange because this was Ashfield, where he'd been born and raised and where he still lived to this day. But despite this unfamiliarity, some deeper part of himself--a part so deep that instinct was but a shallow dip in the pool of his mind and body by comparison--recognized the place, recognized it even though he had never been here before. He recognized it because he thought it was the place from which all life had begun. It wasn't Heaven--at least, not in the sense that _he _had been taught of it--but it wasn't really Hell, either. It was somewhere in between...although Hell seemed to be no more than just kissing cousins away._

_Arrold Street no longer bore the quiet, humble appearance of a sleeping city street. Now, the buildings were run-down, decaying shadows of their former selves, the wood stained with red and brown substances and the metal rusted almost to the point of fracture. The windows were all shattered, glass was spilled down both sides of the street, and unspeakable things loomed in the darkness behind those windows, peering out at him as he passed by. He held tightly to the handmade wooden cross in his right pocket, knowing that it would do no good but helpless and unwilling to face this darkness without it._

Is this real? _he asked nobody...for who was there to ask but nobody? Everyone was gone, dead or missing, except for himself. Those things in the darkness...they might be people, or they might once have been people, but there was no way to be sure. Not here, in the halls of the dead, where the spiders spun and the great circuits fell quiet, one by one._

_But nothing was quiet here. Before, when he'd been chased by that unfathomable thing, things had been bad. But this state of decay through which he currently walked held none of the peaceful serenity, none of the _normality, _the _sanity,_ of that other place. At least that other place had been coherent, at least it had been recognizable. But this...this was too horrible. Could there really be such a place, even in the darkest reaches of the darkest mind?_

_After a few steps, he noticed the metallic clank his black boots made on the ground, and he forced himself to look down. He did not see Hell, but he saw what very well might have been the way there. The road was no longer constructed of the pothole-ridden concrete that had been there before, but was now a mess of criscrossed mesh wires. Every step he took caused the mesh to bend and creak uncertainly beneath his boots, and with that trembling sound came the certainty that the ground would simply give way, hurling him deep into the endless chasm below, perhaps all the way down to Hell. Surely, that was what waited for him at the end of this mortal coil? After all, he was but a walking blaspheme. What good had he really ever done? When in his life had he ever allowed a word of truth about his faith to pass his lips? Never. Because if he had done so when it mattered, then things would have become very difficult for his family. After all, with his father as the high priest of the church, back in 1988, he'd had a lot riding on his shoulders...or so his father had explained to him. Perhaps things hadn't been as bad as they had said, or perhaps they had. Didn't matter now. Now, he was going to have to face the tallies that had built up against him over the years. Now he was going to have to face the music._

They're forming in a straight line!

_He turned, hearing the faint voice in the darkness behind him. It was loud, but far away. Rhythmic, paced, as though its owner were singing. He had had too many experiences with strange voices turning out to have strange owners today, so he quickly crossed onto the sidewalk to his right--which could not rightly be called a sidewalk, as it were, but there was no other real word to describe it--and out of the street. And a good thing, too, he thought, listening and hearing the sound of an automobile._

They're goin' through a tight wind!

_Whose voice was that? He knew it from his youth; for some reason, it recalled memories of his high school days, back in Pleasant River. One day in particular...some kind of dance. What was that about? He had only been to one dance in his life, and that one hadn't been very interesting at all, as he'd gone alone, hoping to pick someone up once he got there. Needless to say, that hadn't happened._

The kids are losin' their minds...

_Now he was beginning to register a tune to that voice, and he realized that it was a song. He knew it from somewhere...it was on the tip of his brain..._

The Blitzkrieg Bop!  
_Blitzkrieg Bop, he mused, remembering the first day he'd heard that song. He had been passing by a record store, and had heard an unfamiliar but extremely catchy tune wafting out from inside like the smell of fresh waffles early in the morning. He'd ducked in to check it out, and it had turned out to be a popular song from a collection CD of some band he'd never heard of. He would have bought the record if he'd had the money, but he remembered that he had been quite poor in those days, and so the CD had been passed on, unpurchased._

Hey-ho, let's go!

_The voice continued in the distance, gradually growing louder and more coherent. There was music, too. What was that about?_

"_Hey-ho, let's go!" a voice said from behind him, and he froze. He heard a dry, creaking footstep, as though the foot to which it belonged was clad in tight leather. "Hey-ho, let's go!" this new entity repeated, taking another quick pair of steps towards him._

_"Go away," he said without authority. He was paralyzed with fear; his feet wouldn't move, and his brain wouldn't think. "Go away, and leave me be! I've done nothing wrong!"_

_"Oh, you're quite wrong about that," the entity said, placing a curled finger over one of his shoulders. He cringed, feeling the all-too-familiar touch of the Miriam-thing's dry, cracked skin. "You've got a lot of tallies on the wrong scoreboard, Father, and it's almost time to claim your prize." The finger was very long, able to slide down his shoulder and into the crook of his underarm with startling ease, all without reaching its base. "You've got a long to-do list in Hell ahead of you, my dear."_

_"I did nothing. It was her choice; she volunteered to do it!" He stiffened his body against Miriam's touch, his ears tuning out the song in the distance as it cycled from the end and back to the beginning. "I asked her not to, I begged her not to go. But she insisted!"_

_"Whatever you have to say to make yourself feel better," Miriam said, digging her nail into the tender flesh beneath his arm. "But you know the truth. And all the ritualistic chants and rants and raves in all the worlds won't save you from what's waiting for you...there." She stepped closer so that she was standing beside him, and although he would not allow himself to directly face her, he allowed his eyes to wander to the side. He caught a glimpse of what might have been cannibal's teeth, or what might have just been a trick of the poor lighting. He decided he didn't care which._

_Miriam raised the index finger on her free hand and pointed down the street, on a slight angle to the northeast. _

_"What's over there?" He asked her shakily, not sure what to expect._

_"The town that takes all," Miriam said matter-of-factly. "The town where all begins. And the town where all ends. Silent Hill."_

_"I'm not going there," he said, but the words felt like a lie even to himself. Greater forces were at work here, and it seemed that they were trying to guide him towards that cursed place of death and darkness. "It's always like this there," he added, without a clue as to what he meant._

_"Correct," Miriam said, loosening her grip on his arm. "It's always like this. Do you remember what the wise men used to say?"_

_He restrained the urge to look at her, and just shook his head instead. "No."_

_"'Don't pray for the wind unless you want it to blow," she responded, and then she leaned out and blew what appeared to be a kiss on the wind. The black, stale air of this Bad Place took the kiss away, and he thought he could actually see something floating on it (or in it...he wasn't sure, and was glad to be so), but he dismissed the thought quickly. "Don't bite off more than you can chew, in other words."_

_He nodded. It was a good saying, alright...but what did that have to do with why he was here?_

_Hell, why _was _he here?  
"You know why you're here," Miriam said dryly, as if speaking to a child of substandard intelligence. "And if you don't, well, things will be that much more fun, now won't they?"_

_"Don't play your games with me, Miriam," he said, reaching up and tearing her hand from his arm with all the force he could muster, his heart suddenly and inexplicably hopeful and angry simultaneously. He took a step back from her and forced himself to look at her...but not directly in the face. He felt that if he looked directly into that face, he would go mad. "This is no time for your riddles and games. Why do you trouble me so from beyond the grave? What have I done to warrant this?" He clasped his hands together across his heart. "What curse did you set upon me before your death that caused you to haunt me? Why are you here, making true this travesty of faith?"_

_Miriam reared back her monstrous head and laughed. "Hah! Stupid man. I am what you made me, and nothing more."_

_"What do you mean by that?" he bellowed. For the time being, he had forgotten the terror that seemed to float in the very air of this place, having replaced it with his own species of rage. "I made none of what now stands before me!" His eyes darted up and down her ruined body and tattered dress, disgusted._

_"You still don't remember, do you?" she asked, raising a massive, clawed hand to her chin as if in thought. "Well, you will in time. For now, though, there's work to be done and trouble afoot. You've held contact with the Receiver, have you not?"_

_"Receiver?" he asked, his rage dissipating. "What are you talking about?"_

_"It was foretold by Gyromancy," Miriam whispered, laughing, and began to move backwards. She didn't actually _walk _backwards, or even really float. She seemed more like a paper doll, being moved backwards by some invisible hand. Her body remained stationary as it moved; he felt his mind scramble, and his head began to hurt. "Wait," he cried, stepping forward after her, but she crossed into one of the damaged storefront windows...and into the dark place into which he would not follow even the likes of Miriam. _Especially _the likes of Miriam._

_"Make haste, Father, before it's too late!" she said, her voice changing to that of a middle-aged woman's. He didn't recognize the voice, at least not from direct memory, but it _did _sound just a little bit familiar, like he might have heard it in a dream before. "Before it's finished! Don't let the Receiver fall for his tricks! He's a trig fellow, but those Pigs still got him!"_

_"Wait, what do you mean?" He tripped over his own feet, landing on the filthy ground just inches from the storefront. He heard a low, otherworldly groaning that could have come from no animal he knew, and quickly rose to his feet, not wanting to meet the owner of that groan as he lay on the ground._

_In the distance, the music began to fade...and those awful sirens returned. Slow at first, but with rapidly increasing force and frequency. They bore down on him like a wolf pack onto a vulnerable deer, and then he was on his knees. Still they grew louder, and at one point he began to scream, but even that became futile as the sirens continued to increase in volume. Finally he could bear it no more, and he felt himself begin to lose consciousness...but before that happened, six words floated over to him in Miriam's voice on the thick current of this place's ancient air._

_"Shoot 'em in the back, now!"_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**"WHAT** does any of this have to do with me?" Walter asked, his eyes glued to Herring. They darted from the officer's face to that of the detective, who stood beside him, and back to Herring again. "I haven't been affiliated with Silent Hill for nineteen years, as I'm sure you know." Walter was still sitting on the bench in his cell, and had once again taken his coat off. It was a bit nippy in here, but whenever he wore the coat, Douglas and Herring would exchange odd looks during their conversations, as though Walter were doing something odd, and he didn't want to attract any strange attention (_Great job you did there, buddy, _he thought), so he had taken it off and tossed it into the far corner of the cell.

"I'm about to tell you," Herring said, leaning against the cell across from Walter's with his arms folded. "Just calm down, pard. I have a little story to tell you, and then I want you to answer a few questions. An English major like yourself should be able to do a little comprehensive listening, shouldn't you?" Herring's tone wasn't mocking, but his eyes were. Walter didn't like his eyes one bit; they pissed him off with their patronizing glimmer.

"Herring, what's this about?" Douglas asked, facing the officer, rubbing his balding forehead with one hand and holding his hat down at his side with the other.

"You'll see, Doug," Herring said, watching Walter the way a lab technician will watch a rat in a maze. "Just watch...watch and wait."

Henry Townshend, who sat against the outer brick wall three cells down from the one around which the congregation had gathered, had up until now taken no notice of or interest in the conversation being held by said congregation...but when Herring opened his mouth and began to speak, he perked his head up from its place of rest atop his clasped hands, and his bent knees straightened as he began to stand up slowly.

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**STEVEN** Denton returned to consciousness with a bang, realizing with some horror that he had been running in his sleep. He was now halfway across the Interstate which ran through the center of downtown Ashfield, and less than ten feet away from a black Volkswagen Beetle. The car was screaming towards him at better than seventy miles an hour--surely over the speed limit--and a horrified look was plastered onto the driver's face.

Forcing himself to run faster on pure adrenaline, Steven narrowly avoided being run over by a car for the second time that night. He tripped over the curb in an attempt to board the sidewalk, however, and sprawled facedown on the ground, bloodying one cheek slightly and crying out in surprised pain. He didn't skid far, but it was a good ten seconds before he was able to climb to his feet again. For the _third _time that night, he found himself challenged by the question of whether or not this was really happening. Was he really back in downtown Ashfield? Normal, un-monster-infested downtown Ashfield?

"_Watch where you're going, asshole!" _the driver of the beetle screamed, displaying his favorite finger to Steven as the driver disappeared down the intersection.

Yeah, he was back in Ashfield.

Steven smiled, reflecting on how little respect he got in light of his priesthood. To the driver's credit, Steven hadn't been acting very much like a priest at the moment--more like a wino--but all the same, it struck Steven as ironic. He rubbed his scraped cheek and inspected it. It came away bloody. Oh, well. At least he hadn't landed on his nose and broken it, or worse.

As for his head, he still felt as though he was coming off of a good trip; his eyes were still trying to adjust to the ground below him and the sky above him, and he continued to stumble disorientedly down the sidewalk until he reached the next intersection. Here, he managed to pull himself together and focus on the sign on the corner.

_Walk._

_Fair enough_, Steven thought, grinning, and crossed the street. Although he was expecting one to--such seemed to be the rule rather than the exception in his case, at least for today--no cars came from either direction. He was able to cross unperturbed.

Each step he took on this last street--Bell Street--brought his awareness back to him a little bit more than the last. It was the same feeling he'd had during his encounter with Miriam, back at the church; the feeling that he was somehow being magically sobered-up. It was pleasant because there was no hangover effect, as there was when he sobered up normally...but it was also very unpleasant, because he thought he could sense an unwelcome presence in his mind and body, like a spirit, or something.

_That's ridiculous,_ he thought, recounting the thought immediately as he reminded himself of what he'd just been through. Nothing was ridiculous, he was afraid to realize...not anymore.

In light of this--also as a result of the fact that he had no knowledge of Henry's detention--it didn't seem like too much of a coincidence when he looked up and saw that he was standing at the bottom of the front steps of the South Ashfield Police Department.

When he saw it, he felt a surge deep within his memory, as if the sight of the building had awakened some old memory in him. He had no idea what that might be--he'd never been arrested himself, although he'd known a few not-so-close friends who had been--and he would have shrugged it off and kept on walking if not for one other thought that occured to him: _He's a trig fellow, but those Pigs still got him!_

And another statement, which had somewhat preceded that: _You've had contact with the Receiver, haven't you?_

For just a single second, the clarity of Steven's thoughts heightened to a level that he would never again attain in his lifetime; for just a single second, Steven was able to recall, think, and deduce exactly what he needed to know instantaneously. It was as though someone had reached down and pulled a switch in his brain, juicing it up to full power, and the headache that occurred in the aftermath of this mental burst would leave Steven wondering if that analogy had been so far from the truth.

_Receiver...The Receiver?_

_Resheeva!_

_The 21 Sacraments..._

_Separate from the flesh, too, she who is the Mother Reborn and he who is the Receiver of Wisdom..._

Where had he read those things? He didn't know...but it was all dawning on him now, dropping on him like a pile of bricks hurled from the heavens by a celestial hand.

_He tried to kill me!_

_Let's do it, Miriam. Let's take those bastards down, once and for all._

_The 21 Sacraments--_

_Miriam, are you sure you want to do this?_

_But the catch was, the Order's bible didn't say that._

_Not quite. More like an experience with the Devil._

_Could you, ah, cross me before I leave?_

His silver cross. He'd given it to that man.

_Thanks. Goodbye, Fa--_

_Please...just call me Steve._

Steven's mouth opened in a horrified 'o' of realization as his eyes pulled his head upward, facing the front of the Police Station.

He rushed up the steps of the Police Station, taking them two at a time. He knew what he had been sent to do now; knew why Miriam had come to him, and what she had meant. Why she had sent him a mixed message was still somewhat unclear to him, but that second time he'd met her--in that sick other world--she had come with a clear purpose in mind, and she had tried to warn him...but she had spoken in riddles. Why, he wondered?

None of that really mattered now, just that Steven knew he had to act on what he had been told; he wasn't sure how he would handle it, or if it would even be possible, but he knew that he would try.

He knew that he would do his best, and fate would deal with the rest.

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**WHEN** he'd heard about it on the news, Jerry Hunter had known that his number was up.

It had all started with the man that had come in here on that day ten years ago, wanting to purchase a fully automatic machine pistol. He'd had all his papers in order, and his approved background check had come through the computer--not a single bit of trouble out of this one. He'd had a flawless record, and so Jerry had sold him the tank of a pistol, expecting him to either target-shoot with it or show it off to his gun-buddies. But the man had done neither; when he'd seen _that _report on the news two days later, he'd known for sure that he had sold the murder weapon to the man who had gunned down Steve Garland in his pet shop just a couple of blocks away. He'd thought of taking care of this then, but had decided against it.

But then, just yesterday, the letter had come. The letter, and the man who'd delivered it.

Walter Sullivan was dead--that much Jerry knew, since he read the papers daily and had a copy of the mass-printed magazine article containing a detailed interview with a friend of the killer--so when the man in the coat had come into his store exactly five days ago, Jerry hadn't thought much of it. In fact, Walter hadn't even crossed his mind.

The man in the black trenchcoat and black leather hat had come in and headed straight for the counter, implying that he'd known his business before he'd come in. He'd handed Jerry a green folder with some papers in it, and Jerry had asked some questions. The man in black had answered them to Jerry's satisfaction, and so Jerry had put the name and model into the computer: Eileen Galvin was officially requesting the purchase of a .357 white-nickel-plated custom-model magnum revolver. When asked for what purpose, the man in black promptly (and coldly) responded, "Official business."

Jerry hadn't liked the look of the guy, but business was business, and he honestly hadn't been expecting the girl to come in five days later, buy the gun, and then take it home and try to blow away a few friends.

He'd seen it on the news earlier, at about seven o'clock. Ms. Galvin had been rushed to St. Jeromes' Hospital (for the second time this week, Jerry thought, amused but confused) with gunshot wounds to one shoulderblade and the back of the neck. The shots had been fired by local legend Douglas Cartland, who had soon after made another arrest. All that had been revealed at this time (and by rumor, at that) was that the arrest may have been linked to the ongoing Walter Sullivan Copycat case.

But that wasn't even the worst part.

After that report, he'd gone down the street to Happy Burger and ordered a Big Blazin' Combo Burger, come back here and eaten the burger, and taken a nap. He'd awoken from that nap later, screaming and in a cold sweat. What had struck him as odd about the dream right away had been that he hadn't exactly felt like he'd been _waking up_, not like he normally did upon waking from a dream. He'd felt more like he'd slipped through a hole in the ground and landed where he'd awakened, as though his soul had been drawn from his body and then abruptly slammed back into it upon his waking. The dream had come to him with horrible clarity, and in it he'd seen the man in black. Just the two of them, it had been, standing on far corners of the same mesh-covered street, a street suspended over what appeared to be a bottomless chasm.

The man in black had told him everything, and he hadn't liked it. Perhaps the man in black had known this all along; perhaps that had been why he'd come and told Jerry what he had. None of that really mattered in the end, though; sitting there with his own revolver--a metal-barrelled monstrosity with inlaid rubber grips--clutched in his hands, the barrell balanced between his bottom and top rows of teeth, Jerry closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

_Hey-ho, let's go!_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**THE **_story begins as Herring is driving down the Interstate towards Silent Hill, a sterotypical cop jelly donut in one hand and a stereotypical cop cup of coffee balanced between his legs, with his free hand on the wheel. His eyes remain plastered on the road ahead, never leaving the yellow line at the center. Herring might be interested to know that a man named Harry Mason actually initiated his own death by driving down this same road, swerving at the last minute to avoid hitting a shady figure that stepped out in front of the car at the wrong moment. Then again, maybe he wouldn't be; Herring has heard his fair share of ghost stories, and although this one is true, it is not by any means the worst he's heard._

_Herring has been on the road all day, and he's not really happy to be out here in the boondocks of the universe...but Douglas needs him to follow this lead, and so he has followed the call of duty as faithfully as a hunting dog sniffs out prey for its master. Although Herring doesn't like the implications of this analogy, he thinks it is somewhat accurate._

_He reaches down and plucks his radio from the dashboard, wondering if he can get in contact with Douglas over this long distance. Probably not, but who knows? He needs to do something; the boredom of the drive isn't killing him yet, but it will be soon._

_As soon as he turns the dial, the radio blasts feedback into Herring's ears, and he jumps, almost swerving off the road but managing to catch himself at the last minute. He moves his hand to turn the dial back, but the feedback clears up as quickly as it came. Odd, Herring thinks. Must be from a cell tower, or something._

_He might also be interested to know that Silent Hill has no cell towers._

_Continuing to drive, he rounds a corner, noticing for the first time the thin fog that has begun to surround his vehicle. It's not bad--he can still see the road ahead of him for quite a ways--but it seems like it might get that way if the weather continues as it has been. If that's the case, Herring might just have to stay in Silent Hill for a few days until the fog clears up...and although he doesn't yet have a reason to be afraid of Silent Hill, as he soon will, he still doesn't take to the idea of staying in this lazy backwater for very long. He's never liked small towns, ever since he read a book called _Desperation._ In that book, this group of people were framed for possession of illegal substances by this cop in a small town out in the desert, and the cop took them to the station...and killed them, one by one. Things got worse from there, and although he already harbored a little fear of small towns (they always make him think of a tightly-woven cult, like something from that Charles Manson case), that book did the trick._

_Seconds pass, and soon the seconds become minutes...but the minutes never become hours. Exactly seventeen minutes after noticing it, Herring sees that the fog has begun to thicken. Soon it covers the windshield, completely blurring his field of vision, and he has to slow his pace to little more than a crawl. It's a good thing he's done so, too, because he sees a massive, odd-colored shape looming in the distance._

_"What the...--" Herring begins, noticing one second too late that the object is not in the distance after all, as he thought--it is right in front of him. Going no more than twenty miles an hour, Herring slams on his brakes and swerves the car, narrowly missing the oblong shape._

Just one great thing after another, _Herring thinks, opening the passenger door of the cruiser and crawling out. The driver's-side door has been blocked by this strange object, whatever it may be._

_Going around the front of the cruiser, Herring is afforded a better look at this strange thing...and then he sees it for what it is. And it causes him to take a step back. Not because he is afraid, or because it may be harmful--neither of these is true--but just because it is such a strange sight._

_It is a wall...but not a brick wall, or a cement wall, or even a stone wall. It is a wall of cars, cars of all shapes and sizes that have been crushed together like the contents of a trash compactor and shaped into a huge fifty-yard-by-seventy-yard rectangle by some as-of-yet-unknown force. And it's blocking the road completely, proceeding out past the sides of the pavement for at least twelve yards on each side._

_"What the...?" Herring reiterates, running one hand along the wall. He jerks it back suddenly, stifling a cry of pain: the metal is extremely hot. Whoever, whatever, made this strange wall, has just made it; the metal is still warm from whatever process has caused the vehicles to take this shape. Above the wall, Herring can see that the moon has been completely covered by clouds that do not look entirely natural; they look like cotton balls that have been placed over a shaving nick to conceal the wound beneath._

_The officer walks the length of the wall, trying to find the place where it ends, where he can perhaps pull his car around and continue on the other side (not that he really wants to anymore, but he's still not entirely sure that what he's looking for isn't here, so...duty calls)...but he only comes up against the wall of the mountain to the east, with the wall of cars still standing...in fact, it meets _exactly _with the natural wall of the hill, as though it were molded in advance to fit so. _

_The road, winding around the side of the mountain on which the town was founded, runs up the crooked slope of the mountain itself, the ground running perpendicular to the sides of the hill. This results in an effect similar to that of a bundt cake, with a road connecting each layer in a spiral pattern, and with each layer set apart by a steep hill. The only way one can reach the top is by riding up the spiral, around the mountain again and again, until one reaches the end at the top. The hill isn't really that steep, but it's too steep to climb safely, and it's definitely too steep to drive up...so Herring has no choice but to try and pass the wall of cars. He turns and heads for the other end._

_But that end, too, is blocked, for the wall ends at the edge of the cliff. Looking down over the cliff, Herring can see the road he was on less than an hour ago, and looking closer, he can see--_

_Something moves down there. A shadow slips quickly, almost too quickly for Herring's eyes to catch, behind a bush to the side of the road._

_Although he has no real reason to feel so, Herring is overcome by a sudden wave of what he calls 'suggestive paranoia.' This is the feeling, Herring has explained to many a rookie, that someone or something is coming to get you...except it is a groundless fear, triggered by the instincts rather than the 'outstincts,' as he calls them. Outstincts, he has also explained, refer to the more physical workings of the body, like reflexes; things that aren't deep enough to be instinctual. Herring does not draw his gun--not yet, anyway--but he places his hand just over the holster on his left hip, his silhouette taking the form of a character out of a Western movie. He takes one more quick look over the cliff and sees nothing. Perhaps it was just an illusion, generated by the fog and his own sense of displacement from this strange wall? Perhaps so...but he will stay on his guard, just in case. Better safe than sorry, his mother has always told him._

_Turning back to the wall, he shrugs. Better start trying to find a way over this wall. Jogging back to the other end of the wall, he glances up the cliff. It's steep, but not too steep; he might be able to climb up and over this wall, if he's careful. It looks tricky, though, so he'll have to be _extra _careful. And getting back...oh, he's thinking about what a pain in the ass that's going to be...but again, duty calls, and Herring, like the Batman, always responds to the howl of that mighty beast, justice._

_Up he goes, using the jutting rocks and stones as footholds, dropping stones beneath him and sending rocks of gradually increasing size tumbling down to the grassy embankment next to the street where his car is parked. He is now halfway from the top; he can actually see the top of the wall now, unobscured by the fog, which has grown thicker during his climb._

_He is perhaps forty feet into the air when he sees the tiny red speck on the rock above him. His brow comes up, and he reaches out a hand to touch it--it looks like a fresh, bright blood stain, but it's almost _too _bright. Like paint, maybe. His fingers close over it...and he realizes what it really is just a second later. The red speck transfers from the rock to the back of his hand. The red speck, Herring realizes, is not blood or paint at all, but a laser light. _And what do we all know, kiddies_, Herring thinks despairingly, _that uses a laser sight and might be found on a cold, foggy night in a creepy small town way out in the middle of nowhere? What god-be-damned thing might we just happen to run into on a night that we thought just couldn't get any worse?

_A gunsight, that's what. A gunsight._

_Herring watches the red speck move downward a little bit until it disappears, and he knows that it is now somewhere in the vicinity of the back of his head. He lets go of the rock he is currently holding, forfeiting his footholds as well, and goes tumbling head-over-heels back down the cliff, banging his head and shoulders and groin and knees and ankles all the way down...but it's a worthy trade, he thinks as he sees the large boulder he was gripping two seconds ago explode into a million tiny fragments. Off in the distance, he hears the sound of a bolt snapping back, muffled slightly by the fog but not enough to make it unfamiliar to him._

_A rifle. A hunting rifle, most likely, if it has a bolt. What caliber, he wonders? That rock didn't just chip; it _blew up. _It _exploded. _That's a high-powered rifle right there, of the sniper variety. _A hunting-sniper-rifle_, Herring has time to think before he is abruptly snagged by a jutting boulder that tears his pants leg. _What an interesting combination, eh?

_Gripping the jutting boulder, Herring sees the red speck zoning in on him again. The sniper is still following him, it seems. _Somebody doesn't want somebody else to get into town_, Herring thinks, and allows himself to drop the last ten feet to the ground. He lands hard on his ankles, spraining the right one, but he won't feel any real pain until later, when he gets back into the car and tries to drive. For now, he is running on pure cop instinct, untainted by such silly things as pain and distraction. He draws his gun and ducks behind his car._

_However, that is soon proved to be a very bad mistake; the sniper is not to the east, as Herring originally thought, but is _above _him, maybe even on the top of the wall of cars! This is evident in the way the red dot continues to track him even as he ducks behind the trunk of the car. Herring rolls to the right just before the sniper pulls the trigger, narrowly avoiding his own scalping, and runs for the passenger door that, he realizes, he did not close all the way when he got out a minute ago. Thankful for this lapse in tidiness, he jerks it wide open, ignores the faint sound of the sniper's bolt sliding back (more muffled now by the increased distance between Herring and his assailant), and throws himself into the car._

_Fumbling for the radio, Herring switches the dial to the APD emergency frequency. "Sheila? Sheila, you there? This is Unit 14, I'm under fire! Repeat, officer under fire! Sheila? Sheila, do you copy?"_

_Another shot pierces the roof of the cruiser, tearing a gaping two-inch-wide hole through the roof and through the center of the passenger seat. The sniper probably thought he was sitting in the passenger seat...if so, his or her aim is very true._

_If so, Herring is in a lot of trouble._

_"Shit," he says, slamming the radio on the dashboard. As he does so, it emits a loud burst of feedback that startles him and causes him to jerk his leg. Good thing, too, because if he hadn't jumped, the next shot--aimed at exactly the place where his left leg had been before it had jerked--would have likely taken his leg off from just above the kneecap._

_Herring scrambles toward the passenger door and flings himself out, again narrowly missed by the sniper's bullet. This latest round takes out the passenger-side rearview mirror, spraying the frame onto the ground as so much twisted metal and shattered glass. Again, there is the faint sound of the bolt on that damned rifle, and Herring scurries to his feet like a scared animal and races to the east, towards the drop. He isn't going to jump, but he doesn't know where else to go; it is here that the fog is the thinnest, and it is here that he will be able to get the best aim on his attacker._

_Drawing his gun, Herring aims upward...and is met with a laser-sight to the eye. He sees the bright center of the beam for one split second, and then his reflexes kick in and he sidesteps, the bullet missing him by millimeters. That was all he needed, to see the light dead-on like that. Now that he has two reference points--the origin of the light, and the place where he was standing when he saw it--he can locate his assailant in a straight line and retaliate._

_Maintaining his upward aim, Herring squeezes the trigger, hoping that he is aiming at the spot where he saw the origin of that laser-sight. He misses, but a faint stream of smoke caused by the friction of the bullet against the wall of cars tells him that he wasn't far off. Adjusting his aim, Herring fires twice more. The first shot rebounds off the wall with an audible _ping, _but the second one hits home...a faint cry of _Augh! _is all Herring needs to prove that. It's a dead sound, that cry, like the cry of an assassin who has taken a blow...but it is eerily similar, all the same, like he's heard it somewhere before. He will think of it later, when it doesn't matter anymore, but for now he can't quite put a finger on it._

_Herring fires three more shots at the same spot, but there is no more crying out, nor is there any more firing. The sniper seems to have retreated. Sighing with relief, Herring begins to walk back towards his vehicle. This time, he's going for the cellphone in the glove box; fuck the radio._

_He plops down in the passenger seat, face streaked with sweat, revolver in hand, and jiggles the handle on the glove box._

_It won't open._

_"Son of a _bitch!_" Herring exclaims, jiggling the knob-shaped handle harder in his frustration. "Stupid mother..." he continues, trailing off into an unintelligible slur of unkind words. "Open, Goddamnit! Open!" What he doesn't realize is that he is filled with an urgent sense of terror, as though he is still being pursued. He isn't--at least, as far as he knows--but he is still filled with that in-the-middle-of-enemy-territory feeling, and he wants to get out of here as soon as possible._

_He finally gets the glove box open, and dials the first four numbers on the phone before he is unceremoniously ripped from the seat of his car by a powerful hand, which seizes his collar and pulls with an inhuman strength. The cellphone falls to the pavement, smashing into fifty pieces._

_Herring is brought face-to-face with a middle-aged man of about forty, with long, dirty blond locks that undulate down the sides of his head all the way down to his shoulders. The man is wearing a green jacket that is strikingly similar to the one Walter Sullivan was often seen wearing, and he wears black fingerless racing gloves. In the hand he isn't using to clutch Herring's shirt, he is carrying a massive .22._

_"Why did you come here?!" the frighteningly tall man asks, his voice high and unsettling, as though he is on the brink of insanity...or well past it. "Why did you come here when I TOLD YOU NOT TO?!?!?!" He seizes Herring and throws him away from the car, leveling his rifle with insane speed. Herring raises his revolver, but has no time to aim: he just fires five times, rapidly, into the mist, hoping that one shot will hit this large man, maybe even kill him. _

_He misses three times, hits the man once above the left knee and once in the neck. Herring feels a joy so great that it almost overflows and spills down his neck--as the blood is now doing from the mouth of his new rival--but that joy dies as soon as he sees the huge man's eyes narrow. The man does not show any sign of pain; does not slow, does not weaken. He fires the rifle once at Herring, grazing his shoulder with a bullet and tearing the officer's uniform shirt, singing the fabric there and tainting it a seared black color. The man grimaces (though obviously not at all in pain from the bullet wounds Herring has inflicted upon him) and throws back the bolt, stepping closer to Herring. He moves with a speed that is almost scary; even Herring's years of training can not match that man's innate agility. "I told him not to," the man says. "I told him not to, so WHY DIDN'T HE TELL YOU?!?!"_

_"No," Herring says, spouting the useless negation as though it might actually save his life. "No, stop! Stop it, go away! I just want to go away!"_

_The giant blond man actually seems to laugh at this, raising his rifle again. He puts one boot-clad foot on Herring's chest and places the rifle's barrell up against Herring's throat. Herring looks into the psychotic man's puffy, red-rimmed eyes, and closes his own eyes as he watches the man's finger descend on the trigger, fully intent on blowing Herring's brains out. Herring holds his breath with his eyes closed and stays that way for a long, long time--what seems like minutes but is in reality only seconds--and waits for the moment at which his mind and flesh will separate in a red haze. His hands fly up to the barrell of the rifle, but even his own great strength cannot match the inhuman power of this titan of a man._

_But the moment does not come; instead, a gargantuan wail is heard in the distance, followed by the faint sound of a foghorn. It actually doesn't sound like a foghorn at all, but if Herring is ever asked to describe it, he thinks now, that is how he will put it._

_The blond giant jerks his head away from Herring, two pounds of pressure on a three-pound trigger, and suddenly sweeps the rifle away from Herring. He levels it, mumbles something under his breath that sounds like _He better not mess with my Crimson Ceremony_, and storms off into the fog, presumably back to whatever strange place he came from._

_Still lying in the street that way, Herring stares up at the night sky and the barely visible red moon, and sighs deeply._

_"Sweet Jesus," he mumbles, and faints._

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_Ten minutes later, Herring is speeding down the road that has taken him to this cursed place, a vow set in his mind never to return. That blond man must have been insane; he seemed convinced that he had told Herring--or someone close to him--not to come to this place, although Herring has never seen the man in his life, ever. Insanity is the only explanation, the only thing that makes even a shred of sense._

_But as the drive goes on, and Herring finds himself able to think more clearly, he allows his mind to wander...and finds it drifting towards Walter Sullivan. Walter Sullivan, who, now that he thinks about it, looks suspiciously like the man that has just tried to kill him. Maybe that means something, and maybe it doesn't...but Herring now knows that he is going to have a long, long talk with Douglas about this. Maybe even get that Walter fellow in on it, too. But now, at this time, as Herring stands telling this story to Douglas and a white-faced Walter (and, unknowingly, to Henry), he has become familiar with the concept of the Crimson Ceremony..._

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"...and I wanted to ask you about that," Herring finished, licking his dry and cracked lips. Douglas produced a bottle of water from the top drawer of the desk at the front of the room and handed it to Herring, who took a long drink from it and gave it back to the detective. "The Crimson Ceremony is a big part of the Order of Silent Hill, or so I've heard. Of course, that's a bit of underground information...something that only an insider would know for _sure_. Only someone who's actually _been _of the Order. Somebody like you." Herring pointed an accusing finger at Walter, who shrugged, instead of going into a rant as they had all expected him to.

"I never paid much attention in classes," Walter said matter-of-factly. "I wouldn't know a Crimson Ceremony from a horse's ass, and that's the truth."

Herring opened his mouth to retort, then hesitated, realizing that there was nothing to retort _to;_ he'd been so ready for one of Sullivan's smart-ass insults that he had already prepared a response of his own.

Meanwhile, Douglas' attention had been temporarily diverted to Henry's cell.

"Crimson Ceremony, huh?" Douglas mumbled under his breath. That had been the name of the book they'd recovered from Henry's apartment...hadn't it? "Hey," Douglas said quietly, trying not to break up Herring's and Walter's conversation, as he approached Henry's cell. "Hey, Henry."

Henry was already plastered to the bars, his head turned to one side and his ear against the bars. He had been trying to listen to Herring's story; during the tense parts, Herring's voice had been especially soft, and Henry must have had to strain himself pretty hard to hear it all. "Douglas?" Henry said, although his tone suggested not a response but a proposal of his own.

"Henry, I need to ask you--"

"I need to ask you something--"

They both spoke in unison, and both halted as soon as they realized this. Douglas held up a hand. "You go first."

Henry cleared his throat. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation, and...well, I think I might know something."

"That's what I was hoping," Douglas said dryly. "About the Crimson Ceremony, no doubt?"

Henry's brow furrowed. "No, not that. I don't know anything about that. I was talking about that man. The blond man in the green coat. The way that officer described him...I think he might be the man you think I murdered."

Douglas shrugged. "That's useless information, Henry. And it's also stupid. Are you going to tell me that the man you murdered--murdered _four days ago--_just tried to kill Herring earlier _today?_" He stopped, produced a cigarette, and lit up. "Because if you are, I want to tell you right now to just shove it. I'm in no mood for games." And this was true, Henry could see; the detective's face was very tired and very wrinkled, an observation Herring had made on the roof a few minutes ago.

"Maybe," Henry said. "I know it sounds crazy, but you've got to--"

"No, it doesn't," Walter said from down the cell block. "It doesn't sound crazy at all." He stepped close to the bars. "Listen, coppers? Can you move us two crooks closer together? I think it's about time we held palaver. Compared notes, that sort of thing. Seems like the three of us have had some pretty interesting experiences of late." He turned to face Herring. "Would you consider this recent venture into Silent Hill to be a 'supernatural experience?'"

Herring looked at Walter, almost--but not quite--disbelieving, and then glanced nervously to Douglas and Henry. "I don't like to think of it that way...but there's really no other sane way to put it. I shot that man in the throat with a .45 round. He was bleeding out of his mouth, _and there was a three-inch hole in his throat... _and he was still coming. Could still _talk._" He shuffled his feet nervously. "That man...that was no man. At least, no normal man."

Douglas turned, directing his full attention to Herring. "What are you saying, John?"

Herring met Douglas' gaze with his own. They made an interesting match. "Pull these two together. I think we've got some 'note-comparing' to do."

END OF CHAPTER 11


	12. Affected

**Chapter 12**

**Affected**

_"The walls are shakin' and they're closing in_

_Too fast, or a bit too slow_

_I'm paranoid of people and it's starting to show_

_There's one guy that I can't shake_

_Over my shoulder is a big mistake."_

Gotta Get Away, _The Offspring_

_(Smash)_

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_**HE'S** in the room again, the one with the circular red pool in the middle that looks supiciously like a bloody crater, the one with the giant dead sphere in the middle. The strange object, which looks like an atomic particle that has been lined with spikes and increased to a hundred billion times its size...and yet he isn't in that room at all. It's the same room, he thinks, but it's also _different.

_He's standing on a narrow walkway, spanning out from the outer circle which surrounds the bloody pool, and now there are arches surrounding the outer rim of the circle, arches that stand about eight feet apart and are separated by plain stucco pillars made of the same stuff of which the ground in this tainted place is made. Each arch opens on another path which leads out into nowhere; empty _red_ness spirals outward into oblivion in all directions, leading him to wonder what would happen if he walked off the edge of the path? Where would he end up? Trapped in darkness forever? Lost in between the worlds forever? Or could he even walk off the edge at all? His legs seem to be frozen in place, planted into the hard rock like the stems of a wilted flower._

_Something catches his eye, and he freezes--the figure on the far side of the circle, barely visible beyond the large metal sphere in the center of the room, has not noticed him, at least not yet; it appears to be a man, wearing a clashingly decorated robe of gold and purple and green and red, crazy, spiraling colors that seem to have no meaning and yet also seem to indicate some kind of strange course, a meaning behind the madness. This thought somehow scares him even more than the idea that the man-figure is completely insane. Some part of him already knows that the man-figure is _already_ insane, has been driven insane by something greater than even the Other Walter would be able to comprehend, but the idea that that insanity only hides another, darker gain gets inside his head and tickles his brain with terror, sending him close to panic._

_He has to get out of here, _now.

_But before he can move, the man across from him pivots on unseen feet, his robe swishing in the un-wind of this terrible place, and he drops the object he was apparently holding--some kind of blue ball, crystal or quartz or some other semi-precious stone. Except it can't be a stone, because it shatters upon contact with the ground, and yet somehow he _knows _it's stone, and that that shouldn't have happened. The man in the robe seems to completely disregard the ball, though, and instead focuses on _him._ The man-figure begins to walk towards him at a hasty pace, walking in perfect, terrible, insane strides toward him that remind him of the old video games he used to play when he was little, those scary boss-monsters that would continue to roam angrily around the screen even after they had located and destroyed their target. That walk speaks of a relentlessness that he, Walter, is not willing to observe any longer--the mere sight fills him with the desire to move, to _go, _to _leave, _to get somewhere safe, and he can't move either of his legs, or even his arms. If he could move his arms, he thinks, he would _crawl _away, dragging himself on the palms of his hands, caring not if they should scrape or grind against the rocky ground. Walter turns his head away, but only seconds later feels it compelled to stare back at the man who is now standing right next to him._

_One ruined red eye stares out at him through a socket covered in some vile, uncolored substance that fills Walter's throat with sickish wads of plegm and stomach acid; he is going to vomit, he thinks, if he has to look at this thing for too much longer._

_"Toolatenow," the man-figure says, all as one word, in a distorted madman-dialect with which Walter is not familiar. "Toolatenow, it's all mine now, it'sALLMINENOW and there's nothingyoucandoaboutit it's MINEMINEMINEYOUcan'thaveitit'sMINE!!!" His voice rises and falls with the inflection of the truly insane._

_"What are you talking about?!" Walter whines like a scared puppy. "Who warned me, what are you saying?" But before he can answer, the man-figure is gone, and he's underwater._

No, not underwater,_ he thinks._

Under_ blood._

_He is swimming in a crimson lake, and to his left he sees a human leg float by, and a picture of a man in a white button-up oxford shirt_

_(HENRY TOWNSHEND 17)_

_and to his left he sees the remains of a human bicep, the tattered remains of a small shirt still hung around the edge of it, intertwined with tendrils of loose flesh. Walter opens his mouth to vomit and only lets in a flood of the sickish stuff that surrounds him. Not blood, but some kind of mixture of blood, puss, and another vile substance he cannot identify. It's like throwing up and not being able to get the taste out of your mouth, only it's worse. He vomits, but it only mixes with the liquid around him and re-enters his throat._

Holy Hell,_ he thinks, ready to faint. But before he can faint, he's back above the pool again._

_No, not above it._

_Below it._

_The blood/puss/etcetera pool is now suspended over his head, rippling in a new soft breeze but not dripping down onto him. Then, he realizes he is floating in the air, and when he looks down, he has to fight a temporary case of shock--he is suspended hundred meters in the air._

_And it's a good thing, too, he thinks once he sees the door. It's a giant double-door, at least fifty meters tall, and engraved with a variety of strange symbols. At first he doesn't recognize the symbols, but then he sees one that is familiar to him: a circle inscribed in another circle, and a small triangle shape inscribed in the smaller circle and decorated with patterns of a (doubtless) Satanic origin. The Seal of Metatron, engraved in the very center of the door, split in half straight down the center by the crack that separates the double-doors. Then, a sickening glow shines through that crack, and Walter observes with fascinated terror that the light is both _dark _and _bright yellow. _That's not possible, he knows it's not, but it's there, he's seeing it with his own two eyes, and when the door begins to crack open, a terribly hot draft fills the room, seeming to suck at him blindly, like the proboscis of an unseen beast worst than the worst nightmare any man ever dreamt. Fortunately, he seems to be frozen in place once again._

_The door creaks open on its massive hinges, and the awful yellow glow fills the room. The blare of music is faint in the distance, but it's no music with which Walter is familiar; yet he knows it is music._

No, wait, that's not music, _he thinks. _That's a siren!

_The doors open all the way, and Walter can see tiny spots emerge from within, tiny specks of something, far off in the distance. Part of some bigger mass, surely._

_Walter knows he is right when he sees that, once they get closer, the specks are not actually specks at all but things the size of a full-grown man. They are now closing in on the door from the other side, from within whatever nightmare world lies on the other side, because it _must _be a nightmare to spawn such hideous, heinous lifeforms as these, no God could have ever condoned the birth of such abberations._

_The creatures begin to shoot out of the gate by the hundreds, shooting out with impossible velocity, each emitting a short burst of sonic-boom as it temporarily breaks the sound barrier. There are hundreds of the things, then thousands, then ten-thousands, then _millions.

God help us, _he thinks._

_The sirens increase in volume, warbling their hellish cry, and (unfortunately) Walter is able to glimpse one of the creatures in its full glory as it coasts to a temporary stop just below him, less than fifty meters--it is a white thing, _too _white, even paler than the skin of a dead man, and _wrong._ Insofar as it can be said to be "human," it appears to be a pair of humans who have been completely eradicated below the kneecaps, perhaps refugees of some hostile nuclear takedown. They are joined at the kneecap by a bloody knot of muscle which is disturbingly fine, as though it has been sewn by someone who consciously formed the thing of his or her own will. The head of one of the 'people' is abnormally shaped, with an asymmetrical potato-shape for a head and one grotesque slit bulging from the side. A filthy red crescent forms for a brief moment, and a piece of rancid mead slides in, runs the length of the slit, and slides back in--its mouth and tongue, no doubt. The head of the other 'person' is gone entirely; no more than a bloody concavity where the neck should be. The arms of both 'people' are absent, and from the bloody slot where one arm should be, Walter observes a large, fleshy blade as it extends from seemingly nowhere, swipes at thin air, and returns to its place of rest._

Sweet Jesus, _Walter echoes in his head, _dear sweet fucking Jesus. _He is dangerously close to hysteria. What saves him is the voice from above, the deranged voice of that psychotic individual in the crazy-colored robe, the laughter and the insanity behind that laughter and the sanity behind that insanity, the chant that begins right now and tells him_

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**"WAKE **up!"

Walter jolted awake, almost socking Henry in the jaw during the few seconds he spent flailing in terror. Once he realized where he was, and that the terrible other place had been a dream, his heart rate gradually slowed and he began to calm down.

They were in Douglas' four-door Dodge, he and Henry buckled securely into the back seat, Douglas and Herring up front. Walter glanced out the window to his left and saw the Lamb, a local bar which held no particular significance to him, go speeding by. That casual setting was enough to allow his mind to ascertain its grip on reality once again, and Walter steadied himself, crossing his hands in his lap and trying to appear moody.

"You always this subtle?" Walter asked, tilting his head just enough so that Henry could see him flutter his eyes.

Henry snorted--out of laughter or annoyance, it was impossible to tell--and didn't respond.

"The strong, silent type, eh?" Walter added, and elbowed Henry. He'd already forgotten all about his attempt to appear grouchy.

Again, Henry did not respond, just raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

"Whatever," Walter said, and stared out the window. For a moment he struggled with his mind, trying to recall how he'd gotten from Point A to Point B--the last clear thought he had was of sitting in the jail cell back at the Police HQ, carrying on some conversation of yet-to-be-determined importance with the two lawmen and Henry. He also remembered that, at some point, there had been some commotion in the lobby, but he didn't remember ever finding out what it had been about.

Wait, now it was all coming back to him! Yeah, they'd had a conversation--basically a campfire ghost-story session; the four of them sitting in a circle, Henry and Walter at opposite ends, and Herring and Douglas across from each other, telling their versions of some screwed-up event that explained why they were now victims of the legal system. Henry had gone first, after he'd finished marveling at how similar Walter looked to some other guy named Walter; Walter had made the natural assumption that this 'Otherwalter' was some kind of physical manifestation (or perhaps just a puppet) of the version of himself he'd palavered with in that strange other place, the one inside the hole that had now appeared to him twice. For the time being, he'd decided not to worry about it...or to share it with the others. When his turn to talk had come around, he'd simply bypassed that part of his story. He didn't know why, but he'd had a feeling. And his feelings were usually right.

Next, Herring had related the story of how he'd nearly died at the hands of a gargantuan blond man--nothing short of a Viking warlord with a hefty stock of high-powered weaponry, from the sound of it--and then Douglas had related the events that had connected him to the cult from Silent Hill and a girl named Heather Mason.

"So, what do you make of it?" Herring had said to Douglas after a long time. He wasn't quite able to look at the detective as the same man he'd known ten minutes ago; he'd had no clue that Douglas had experienced anything of the sort he had just described.

Douglas only shook his head.

"Well, I have a theory," Walter spoke, "but it's probably wrong."

Henry eyed Walter lazily. Meeting that seemingly empty gaze, Walter thought that this man was either very, very dumb, or the exact opposite and very good at hiding it. He made a note to himself never to underestimate this man, Henry, should it come to a confrontation between them. Not that it ever would...but there was always a chance.

"It's better than what I got," Herring said. He sounded tired. "Fire away, jailbait."

"Don't call me that," Walter said curtly. He didn't like the officer talking to him like a piece of property. Then, as if that exchange had not just occured, he continued. "First off, the odd part is that I, unlike you three, haven't seen any supernatural abberations or crazy worlds, or monsters, or anything. And yet I seem to share the same name--and, according to Mr. Henry, the same _physique_--as this other man, Walter Sullivan. That seems a bit unusual to be a mere coincidence, am I right?" He raised his arms in the air, as if to say, _eh? Eh?_

Nobody said anything, but Henry was beginning to nod slowly.

Walter tossed him an obligatory thumbs-up and proceeded. "So I don't think it's safe to say that I am _completely _out of this picture; it seems like my name is important, somehow. Maybe something about me. Or maybe the whole thing's just a fluke, a red herring--" he paused, glancing at Herring with the ghost of a smile that the officer did not return. "--if you follow me. Maybe my name was thrown into the equation to distract you three. Or us, if you prefer to think of us as _ka-tet._"

"As what?" Douglas broke in. It was the first time he'd spoken since the conversation had begun.

Walter raised an eyebrow at Douglas. "What?"

Douglas frowned. "That word you just used. 'Catet,' or something. What was that?"

Walter licked his lips, uncertain. The officer must have meant _ka-tet,_ a word which held a strange resonance in his mind...but where had he heard it before? From the other Walter?

No, that word had been _ka._ _Ka, _not _ka-tet._

"I don't know," Walter told him honestly. "I've never heard it before. Why?"

Douglas and Herring exchanged another of those glances, the ones that were somehow both knowing and unknowing at the same time--knowing that Walter must be up to something, but unknowing as to what that might be. Douglas turned back to Walter. "You just said it, that's why."

Walter flinched. "I did?"

"Yeah," Douglas said, sounding irritable. "Skip it, okay? I don't have time for this. You were saying?" He thought he had the basic definition of that word, anyway. Walter had spoken of them as a group, and then described them with that word, so it must mean a group of people. But why had he used that strange word?

Douglas decided to file that thought away for later discussion. It may or may not have any importance at the moment (probably not), and they were short on time.

"In any case," Walter resumed, "there are obviously larger forces at work here. If what any of you say is true, then there must be _somebody_ out there who is trying to tell us something."

"Or some_thing,_" Henry interjected, not sure why he'd said that if he knew that was what they were all thinking. They all held the uneasy silence that followed, as if speaking the phrase had stirred some deep-sleeping beast and they were all waiting to see if it would awaken and swallow them all where they stood. When nothing of the sort happened (as they had surely known it wouldn't), Walter once again resumed his speech.

"This somebody, or some_thing,_ has brought us together for a reason. I don't know what that is, or who might have chosen us four misfit rivals, but I have a strong feeling that something, or somebody, somewhere, is...ah, I don't really know how to put it..."

"Tipping," Herring said through numb lips. "The word you're looking for is 'tipping.'"

"That's it," Walter said, snapping his fingers. "_Tipping. _Like there's a pillar somewhere getting ready to fall and break. I know it sounds stupid, but--"

"No, it doesn't," Douglas interjected, lighting a cigar.

"--but that's what it is. Anyway, back to my original point...I feel like we're supposed to move on from here, you know, like, advance to the next stage of the game. Except I also have this feeling that something isn't done yet. Some vital piece of the puzzle that hasn't been set in place yet."

"I don't like the cryptic way you talk," Herring mumbled, obviously disconcerted. "Why don't you spell it out for me? Sorry, but I never did too well in Psychology."

Walter sighed. "I don't really know, that's just it. That's why it's bugging me. I think we're supposed to do something, and we only have a little while longer to do it, a little window of opportunity, before it's too late. And I don't know what it is. It's getting under my skin, like one of those damnably huge African beetles." He held up his hands to indicate the size of said beetle.

The other three people in the room shared an uneasy look. They felt it, too; Walter could read it on their faces.

The catch? Walter _did _know what it was he had to do. But he didn't know _how _he was going to pull it off without the cops finding out about it. See, he had a hunch about that piece of paper and that key, the one with the doll keychain. When he'd been reading it earlier that day, some new words had appeared on it: _Come alone._ Reading those words had been more like picking up a thought than reading printed words. And the thought he'd picked up from it hadn't been good.

He had to get the message to Henry--although he was still unsure exactly _what _the message was, and that wasn't good--but he had to get it _only _to Henry. Not to the cops. They couldn't know about it at all.

And _that _wasn't good, either. If he let the cops leave this room long enough for him to tell Henry all that he needed to be told, he felt sure that they would leave for Silent Hill without them. And these two officers were his--and Henry's--only real hope of getting out of here.

"What did you mean when you said 'move on?'" Douglas asked. "Move on, like away from here?"

"I think so," Walter said. "I think there's somewhere in particular we have to go. I think we have to go to--"

"Silent Hill," they all said in unison, and a cold chill swept through the room, even though the AC unit was not on that day and all the windows were shut.

Douglas stood up and stretched, a token gesture. "I've got to go to Silent Hill, anyway. To follow a lead on a very important case." A statement that was only half a lie. "You two can wait here until we get back. There's no point in waiting until your trials are over, since I'm pretty sure one of you is gonna wind up in prison for a _long _time. That, and this is urgent business."

"Wait!" Walter cried, rising to his feet. He clenched his fists around two of the bars and bared his teeth at Douglas. "You can't go alone!"

Douglas' eyebrows dropped noticeably. He opened his mouth to say _I've done worse by myself before, _and then realized that that, too, would be a lie. Nothing in his life had ever been worse than what he had seen in Silent Hill late last week.

No, wait. There was _one _thing.

"He's right," Henry said, sounding no perkier than he had upon being arrested. "You have to take us with you."

Herring snorted sarcastic laughter. "What obligates us to take this liberty with you? Even if you are right--which I question--we could lose our jobs faster than you can say 'Hell no' if we take you guys anywhere."

"I understand that it's a big risk for you to take," Henry said, "but I think Walter's right." The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, considering his relationship with the 'Otherwalter.' "If you go there alone, you might die. Or worse. You both know what I mean."

Herring recalled the face of the hulk of a blonde man, and Douglas thought of the blank period during which his leg had been wounded.

Walter's arms were still clasped around the bars in desperation. "If you guys leave here, we're done for. Both of us."

Henry shot Walter a shocked look that seemed to say, _Say _what

Douglas had been heading for the cell block's exit door, but he hesitated at Walter's words.

"That's right," he continued, nodding in confirmation. "What do you think is going to happen to us? If the situation wasn't so extremely against us, then I might think differently...but you guys know the judicial system better than anyone. If it looks like we did it, they won't hesitate to convict us, even if there's reasonable doubt. People don't care who did what anymore; they just want a scapegoat, somebody to hang so they can tell themselves they don't have to worry anymore. Someone to sacrifice so they can sleep at night."

Henry watched and listened, not in agreement or disagreement but simple amazement at Walter's lack of faith in people. He'd never been that way, himself--sure, he'd had his bad days, his really bad days, his _really _really bad days, his absolute _hell _days...but even he wasn't that disillusioned.

Then he thought of Eileen, lying half-dead in a hospital room just a few miles from here, and realized how dangerously close to Walter's perception he was sitting. Any judgement he'd had of Walter was suddenly put on hold.

Herring eyed Walter closely. "I also know that a man behind bars will say anything to get on the other side." He waved a thumb towards Douglas. "You're relying on this guy's mercy now." Although, deep down, Herring felt that wasn't completely true.

Sighing with frustration, Walter sank back into the cell, disheartened. There was always the off-chance that, after the cops left, he could tell Henry what he needed to tell him and some kind of magic portal would open up around him...but somehow, that didn't seem likely. Whatever feeling he'd had about what to tell Henry was also telling him that this was his last chance. If he missed this bus, there would be no hitchiking or catching up.

He _had _to get out of here with these three people.

"Detective Dan--Douglas, I mean," Walter said, cursing silently to himself. This was no time to be falling into the ritual of screwing with people. "I'll do whatever you guys want me to. Hell, you can tie us up and throw us in the trunk, if you feel like you have to--"

"Now, wait just a second--" Henry tried to break in.

But Walter promptly ignored him. "--just take us with you! We have to get to Silent Hill, before it's too late. You feel it, too, I know. I don't know why, but I think it has something to do with whatever happened there a couple of days ago. Well, I feel the same pull. I _have _to get to Silent Hill!"

"What's so important that you 'have' to get there so bad?" Douglas asked. Walter thought he sensed the faint spark of curiosity in his voice, honest curiosity...and, hopefully, the willingness to oblige if need be.

Walter hesitated. "I can't really explain it to you. Not in words. I might be able to show you, once we get there--I don't know what it is myself, really--just that I need to get there, A.S.A.P." He thought of mentioning that he needed a moment alone with Henry--to pass on the warning message--but that would probably just make them even more suspicious, and he needed them to trust him now more than ever.

Douglas looked at Herring, then back at Walter. Then he looked at Henry. All three were gazing back at him, waiting for some decision to be made. Douglas was a little irritated by that; he hated being put on the spot without knowing what to do next. If he said no, and somebody who should've have died, died because of it, then he would never forgive himself. He might even look back and think how obvious the signs had been, and wonder how he could have missed them. This was a method of thinking that he used often, to put himself in the place of someone who knows what will come of his decisions. It never really helped--it actually just served to make him more paranoid--but it made it easier to decide, at least. Sort of like flipping a mental coin.

Sighing with a mixture of doubt, regret, and, in spite of those things, certainty, Douglas made his call.

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**THEY** walked quickly through the lobby, Henry and Walter in cuffs and Herring and Douglas in front, the latter two making sure to be rough with the suspects so as to communicate to the cops at the desk that they were tired and irritable from hours of interrogation. They almost reached the front door when Wharton came out of the other cell block, twirling a set of keys on a comically large keyring, and inquired as to where they were taking the suspects. _Prime _suspects, Wharton reminded him.

"We're taking 'em uptown," Herring said, relying on his stone demeanor to intimidate Wharton. "Goldstein'll want a crack at 'em. He's been calling all day."

"Really?" Wharton asked, seeming unusually uppity in spite of Herring's gaze. "I haven't heard the phone ring."

"Cell phone," Herring said, tapping his chest pocket. "He's got my number, remember?"

"Hm? That's kind of odd, him calling you personally. 'Specially considering you guys aren't on such good terms, not since that case a few years back. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," Herring said through teeth that were gritted with impatience. "What are you getting at?"

"Nothing," Wharton said, still grinning that sly grin. "Nothing," he repeated.

"Wharton, stop screwing around. If you've got something to say, say it. If not, get the hell out of my way." He looked Wharton in the eye.

That seemed to shake Wharton up pretty good, because that smarmy smile dripped off his face, as though it were made of solid metal that had suddenly liquified in the heat of Herring's glare and run off of his face. He left the room in a hurry, apparently forgetting all about whatever he'd had to tell Herring.

Apparently.

Later, he would curse himself for being so stupid.

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**NOW** they were on the road.

Where were they going right now?

Had yet to be determined.

Where were they going ultimately?

They all knew, but each of them was afraid to say.

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**THE** first place they went was a little second-hand store just outside of the city limits. It was called "Second-Hand Roses." All of the garments in it looked really run-down and dirty to Douglas, Henry and Herring, but to Walter the place was a treasure trove--having been homeless for a short period of his life, he had seen clothes in much worse condition than these, some at exponentially higher prices--and so he spent about half an hour browsing.

At last he found a pair of black jeans with a small assortment of holes in the knees and thighs that he dubbed fashionable--he would have to cut the belt-loops open to get the tacky gold chains off, but that was no big deal--and a matching plain black shirt, plus a tattered waist-length leather jacket with half-assed patches in two places on the right shoulder. The whole mess cost about thirty bucks; the jacket was the most expensive.

As Herring escorted Walter back to the sedan, he mused aloud, "Where did you learn to _shop _like that?"

Walter shrugged. "I've never really thought about it--it's just one of my superpowers, I suppose." And with that, he dipped into the back seat and shut the door, and fifteen seconds later they were on the road again.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**THE** next stop was a laundromat. Walter refused to wear the purchased clothing until it had been thoroughly washed, and although Douglas and Herring had protested that it would be too great a risk for Walter to be seen in public for such a duration, Walter finally convinced them that it would be okay since it was getting late, and the place would be closing soon, so the store wouldn't be likely to have any more business tonight.

Douglas watched the Discovery channel--Whale Week was on, and Douglas liked Whales; he found the fact that they could blow water from their blowholes to be the absolute height of humor, and he unleashed a series of jolly but subtle chuckles each time this was shown on the screen--Herring sat in the corner of the room and spent several dollars in quarters playing Pac-Man, and Henry sat across from Douglas, just under the TV, reading a copy of _Vogue._ There was really nothing else to read--just a copy of _Seventeen _from several years ago (by strange coincidence, it was one Henry had read a few years ago, in the waiting room of a doctor's office, under similar conditions) and a couple different issues of _Highlights._

Thirty minutes later, they were on the road again. Douglas hoped he wasn't the only one who noticed the strange black car pull out from around the side of the building just as they left the parking lot.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**THE** last stop was a hair salon with a name so strange that Walter would not be able to help remembering it later, _The Hopping Penguin. _Walter and Henry went inside, and while Walter was getting his hair cut and styled, Henry sat in the lobby by the magazine rack. This time, he settled for a more recent issue of _Highlights. _Thankfully, the lobby was empty (it must have been a slow business day)--he had this queer paranoia that sombody might see him reading _Highlights,_ although he didn't know why he was so adverse to the idea.

Another half an hour later, Walter came out of the salon a completely different man.

Even though it had been Douglas' and Herring's idea to give Walter a makeover in hopes of obscuring him from the authorities' far-reaching eyes and ears, they were both very, very surprised when Walter stepped out of the dressing room near the lobby.

Douglas and Herring had just stepped in the front door, intending to see what in blazes was taking Walter so long, and when their eyes fell on the new and improved Walter Sullivan, Herring let out a long, low whistle.

"Now _that's _the stuff," Herring said, not in appreciation of the man's style (in fact, he thought it was atrocious) but in amazement at how _different _he looked. Before, he had looked like just regular street-trash; Now, he looked like street trash with an _attitude._

Before, his hair had been past his shoulder, long and brownish-red, almost Norse in its broadness. Now it was a dark black, stopping just below his ears on either side of his head, and it was combed away from his eyes, the bangs tucked behind his ears. The black clothes accentuated the darkness of his hair, giving his bright lips a look of full sensuality in spite of the deathly quality his clothes imparted. His eyes also seemed more blue, clearer and more threatening than ever before.

Without a doubt, this was the _real _Walter Sullivan; the one they'd seen before had been just a costume (as much as this one _looked _like one), a cover-up for the true chaotic person inside.

"Well?" Walter said with a shrug, tossing his hips exaggeratively in one direction, apparently striving for comic effect, "how do I look?"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

**TEN** minutes later, they passed the sign reading

NOW LEAVING ASHFIELD!

PLEASANT RIVER - 100 M

BANGOR - 80 M

Somehow, the fact that their destination was not articulated on the sign made the trip a little easier. Not having to be reminded that they might be driving on towards their own brutal demise made it easier to focus on the matters at hand, and to not worry about what might or might not happen once they got there. It also made it easier not to think about how they didn't even really know why they were going to such a dangerous place. Because a potential madman had told them he thought it was necessary to complete some supreme objective, ordained by some higher power?

_No, _Douglas thought. _Someone is calling out to me, but it's not a higher power. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. No matter what._

He felt the comforting weight of his pistol, strapped tightly into its holster beneath his shoulder, and remembered his last visit to Silent Hill. The things he had seen...the things he had done...

The things he had remembered.

"Heather," he said, the words barely a whisper, completely inaudible to the car's other passengers even beneath the silent purr of the car's engine. _Don't worry, kid. I'm comin' for ya._

Herring had his own reasons, but in his heart of hearts...no, he didn't really believe Douglas' story. Henry's, either. It wasn't so much that he _dis_believed them, but rather that his exceptionally logical mind was simply in denial, refusing to accept such outrageous, farfetched possibilities as alternate worlds and psychotic monsters.Henry's mind, meanwhile, wandered off to Eileen, who was now lying, comatose, in a hospital bed in South Ashfield Heights. Dying? Maybe. Getting better?

Almost certainly not.

_At least, not yet,_ Henry forced himself to add. _It's too soon._

But 'too soon' was a bit of an overstatement, considering that 'soon enough' might never get here. She might die in her current condition, just breathe out the last of the life that had been tragically cut short without even the mercy of knowing what was happening.

Or maybe knowing wouldn't be a mercy at all. Maybe it was better that way.

_No,_ he thought. _No, I won't think that way. Won't _let _myself think that way. She's got to live._

_She's _got_ to._

Walter cast Henry an uncertain--almost guilty--glance, and then quickly returned his gaze to the road outside the window. For a brief moment, he had broken. He had actually intended to tell Henry, Douglas and Herring the whole story, from the private warning message to the visits from the Other Walter, but when he'd seen the distracted look of Henry's eyes at that moment, he'd been discouraged from trying to make contact.

If Walter had known what events he was bringing about by witholding his part of the story--the story that, unspokenly but undoubtedly, the rest of them _deserved_ to hear, considering the circumstances--then maybe he would have told them then and there, after all.

Maybe.

END OF CHAPTER 12

**END OF PART I**


	13. Separate Ways

**PART II: CITY OF THE DAMNED**

**Chapter 13**

**Separate Ways**

_"Hear the sound of the falling rain_

_Comin' down like an Armageddon flame_

_The shame, the ones who died without a name_

_Hear the dogs howling out of key_

_To a hymn called faith and misery_

_And bleed, the company lost the war today_

_I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies_

_This is the dawning of the rest of our lives..."_

Holiday, _Green Day _

_(American Idiot)_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**I** would like to show you a picture.

Herring, Walter, Henry, and Douglas are sitting at a picnic table, under the rustic tin roof of a traveler's shelter just off the highway of Route 80, coming Silent Hill-bound from the Ashfield district. They are all eating fast-food lunches--lunches that more than one of them are savoring as though it were their last, for it seems all too possible that it _will _be their last--and they are speaking of mundane things, like favorite television shows and musical talents, the mistrust and suspicion that has hovered between them all morning forgotten, at least for the time being. Walter has just finished relating the story of a high-school talent show in which he assembled a punk-rock band from two other nobody musicians and performed a set of Ramones songs after only two months' practice with an electric guitar. Herring, too, has spoken of his days, prior to his law-enforcement career, as a freelance musician, playing acoustic acts at beatnik cafes and country bars; years when life was still fairly innocent and his partner had not yet been murdered and the world had not begun a downward spiral towards the hell that it is becoming. They speak of these irrelevant but fellowship-inspiring stories as though trying to avoid the subject of their ultimate destination altogether.

I would also ask you to cherish this moment, for it is the last time it will be possible to present this group to you in such a pleasant, orderly fashion. A very bad thing is about to happen, and it will change the lives of those who survive it--if anyone _does _survive it--for years to come. It will take place some time within the next few hours of our dear friends' journey, so savor this last moment that our heroes will share together, this last moment of spiritual and emotional companionship, this last inexplicable moment of trust and alliance...if you've enjoyed the story thus far, you'll come to miss it in time, I can tell you that much, because--pardon the cliche--things are about to get ugly.

The _real_ story is about to begin.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**"I'M** sorry, sir, you can't go in there."

The officer was growing impatient, and had reluctantly seized Steven Denton's shoulder when the Father had tried to enter the cell block where he knew the officers had taken Henry. This officer was obviously very uncomfortable with having to deal with Steven; he seemed unsure as to how to apply his police training to a man of the cloth in the event that he should become unruly.

Steven felt bad about using this to his advantage, but this wasn't a normal circumstance, so he pressed on.

"Sir, I understand you are busy, but this is very urgent. That man in there has--"

"You'll have to come back tomorrow, Father. I'm really very sorry, I am, but I don't make the rules--"

"Then just perhaps you can help me out here," Steven interrupted, trying to overwhelm the officer before he got ahold of himself. "I only need to see him for one second. It's very important--"

"You don't seem to understand," the officer, whose nametag read _Hamilton,_ insisted, still holding Steven away from the door. "That detective guy is in there, and he's not the kind of guy you want to mess with. He's really polite and laid-back, as long as things are going the way he wants them to...but he and Herring are in there doing _something_ with the suspect, and if I let you in, I'll get my ass chewed off." He hesitated, blushing, and smoothed his hair. "Sorry, Father." This apology was not for holding the priest back, but for using harsh language in his presence. Normally, this made sense to Steven, but right now it seemed irritably petty.

Nonetheless, Steven said, "It's fine, really. But there must be _some _way you'll let me in to see that man tonight. I promise, I won't cause any trouble."

Hamilton hesitated, then looked both ways, seeming to scout for anyone who might overhear what he was about to say. Then he leaned close, pulling Steven closer with the hand that was gripping his shoulder, and said in a low voice, "Look, I'm not supposed to let people visit the detainees outside of the normal visiting hours...I tell you what--if you come back tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I'll set you up a quick private visitation time in the cell block. Okay?"

The look of hopefulness that had crossed Steven's face began to slide off like warm jello. He'd been expecting Hamilton to eventually allow him in, but the officer was unwavering. It seemed that the only way to get in there would be to force his way in, and that would only lead to more trouble.

Hanging his head in dismay, Steven raised his hand and gestured to the officer. "That would be okay, I guess."

That was a lie, of course.

Tomorrow, it would be too late.

He turned and left the lobby, defeated.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

How was he supposed to get in contact with Henry? Things had suddenly become much more complicated. In a moment of revelation, he'd thought he'd had it all figured out...but he apparently had one more daunting task ahead of him, conveniently left out of the equation.

Glancing around for no apparent reason, his eyes came to rest on the sign over a small cafe just down the street, a little coffee shop named Joe Muggs. Yeah, that was the answer. He would stop in and try to wake up over a cup of coffee. Sure, it was almost nine thirty at night, but he didn't think he'd be going back to sleep for quite some time. And he needed to be clear-headed.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**DOUGLAS** shook his head, but he was smiling--Walter's remark had not disgusted him after all, it seemed. He seized the wrapper that had contained his Big Mac, rolled it up, and tossed it towards the comically tall garbage container at the near end of the traveler's shelter. It ringed and tumbled around the edge, and at first he thought he was going to have to go pick it up and manually insert it into the can, but then it settled down and slid into the can. The satisfying sound of paper smacking into and sliding against more paper indicated that he had made the shot.

"No, really," Walter said, "it was a long time before I had this fuckin' bowl-cut thing goin' on." He motioned to his newly-trimmed hair, which looked nothing like most of the pudding-bowl haircuts Douglas had seen in his time, despite Walter's claim. "I had this buzzcut do--a really bad imitation of the guy from the Offspring, as it were--and we did that song by Bobby Freeman. You know, 'Do You Wanna Dance?'"

Herring raised a finger. "I remember, they used to play that song all the time on the radio when I was a kid. Geez, it feels so long ago already. I think that was back when I was still in high school!" He took a sip from the latte he had ordered at McDonald's earlier. "Still lightyears away from making the force and meeting this sonofabitch, huh?" He elbowed Douglas playfully.

Douglas snorted. "It wasn't that long before I met you. 'Straight from twelfth-grade into junior college, buddy-buddy-buddy, I passed my exam,'" he quoted.

Walter and Henry exchanged perplexed glances.

"'Makin' me a law enforcement person, got me a gun an' a badge, I'm a man,'" Herring finished, feigning a southern drawl. "Yeah, I remember that one, too."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Walter asked with a chuckle, raising an eyebrow.

"'Radar Gun,' by the Bottle Rockets," Herring informed him. "They were this old country-punk band from way down south. They had a few hits that got played on the radio nation-wide, and that was the first song I ever heard by them. Douglas too, if I remember correctly." He made eye-contact with Douglas.

"Yeah, that's the one," Douglas agreed. "That, and then 'Gotta Get Up.'" He tapped Herring on the shoulder. "You know, 'cause I gotta get up, and I gotta go to work, and then I come home, and I gotta go to bed," he recited.

"So I can sleep my two days off away, and do it all over again," Herring responded, downing the last of his drink. "Hold up, I'm gonna ditch this real quick." He got up to fulfill his promise. As he sat back down afterward, he patted Douglas heartily on the back. "Yeah, those were the days, huh?"

Douglas sighed, recalling the 'good old days.' It wasn't too long before he--as well as the other three people present at the table--acknowledged the solemn silence at the table. Nobody was speaking, laughing, or even smiling.

"You guys feel it too, eh?" Douglas asked.

Walter, Henry and Herring nodded.

"It's an omen of death, I'm sure," Walter said, glancing up at the light-gray sky. It wasn't quite dark enough to be gloomy, but it was dank enough so that it could have been easily misinterpreted as the omen Walter described. "You guys know what I think?"

"We're probably gonna die," Henry said, finally speaking up. It wasn't so much intution as it was that a voice seemed to have spoken to him. He might have mistaken it for intuition, though, had it not sounded so genuinely alien.

The other three turned to him, cautiously curious.

"I don't know," he amended. "It's weird, but...I feel it. Don't you guys?"

Herring and Douglas nodded, one by one, after a brief hesitation. None of them wanted to admit it in their secret hearts, but each of them felt it in his own way.

"So then...why are we even going?" Herring asked, removing his cap long enough to scratch his thick black hair. "I mean, we haven't even called in for reinforcements, or anything. There's still a chance to fall back, if we need to--back up, take a breath, regroup, prepare. You know."

Walter shook his head. "No. We have to go today. And we have to be there before nightfall."

"How do you know these things?" Herring asked, suddenly frustrated with Walter's insistences. "What did you do that makes every word you say, every feeling you get, the great gospel?"

Walter thought for a moment of telling them about his visits from the other Walter, but immediately discounted the idea. If there had been a time to share it with the cops, that time had already passed; the other Walter's directions had already been set into motion. "You don't have to trust me, you know. I'm only here because you guys made the decision to trust me. If you're going to start doubting me now, then there's no reason for us to continue. We should just turn around now--"

"No," Douglas insisted. "I believe you, Walter. I don't know why--I just met you a day or two ago, and already I feel like I've known you all my life. Henry, too. But Herring, I think he's right; we have to go there today, and we should try our damnedest to get there before nightfall. Something tells me that being there after dark would be a serious mistake."

_But really, isn't the notion of going _at all_ a serious mistake?_ he thought to himself.

"Still...maybe we should at least get reinforcements. Weapons, if nothing else." He was obviously thinking of the hulking brute of a man that had almost killed him the day before.

"Weapons won't help you there," Douglas assured him. "It seems to me that, most of what's wrong with that town...the stuff you should _really _be afraid of...guns won't be any use against those things." He tapped his head. "That town messes with your head."

Henry nodded in agreement, and Walter had to resist nodding himself--he was still trying to uphold the notion that, to this point, he'd had no supernatural experience.

His expression suddenly changed. Herring and Douglas saw it, and they both felt it was suspicious. Douglas wondered if he was the only one who felt a cold wind slip between them.

"Hey, do you guys care if I talk to Henry by myself for just a minute?" he asked. It felt odd to request permission from these men, considering that they were so close to forces so powerful, they made every other problem on the earth seem like a sunny day on a beach made of cheescake. As if they had any real authority at all.

Douglas frowned. "Why?" He had forgotten, in the midst of their friendly chatter, that these were two suspected convicts. While his primary goal was, at this point, getting to Silent Hill and getting ahold of Heather--the very nature of which dictated that he was practically _required _to believe Walter's and Henry's crazy stories--he still entertained, in the back of his mind, the slightest doubt that Henry and Walter had told the truth thus far. His paranoia (or maybe you called it cop's instinct; at his age, Douglas really wasn't sure there was much of a difference at all) insisted that it was at least _possible _that Walter and Henry had staged this whole paranoia stunt in order to avoid prison time. That they were, in fact, cohorts that had worked this all out ahead of time, and were playing he and Herring like old, out-of-tune pianos to this very moment.

_Sure, but what are the chances that he would know about what _you _saw in Silent Hill? _his rational mind insisted. _And better yet...how can you believe Herring's story, and not believe Henry's?_

He thought he knew why. It wasn't because of anything Henry had done; it was simple because of the man's demeanor. Henry was too damn quiet. Earlier, when they'd been under fire by Eileen, Henry's neighbor (and apparent love interest), Henry had reacted like a gunman in a western movie. He was like a socially stable version of Clint Eastwood's Man With No Name--reliable in combat, stern, quiet...but suspiciously calm and sociable. He answered questions when spoken to, and sometimes even branched the conversation in other directions of his own accord. But the way he was so calm and well-mannered...Douglas was still paranoid about that. It was almost like he was _hiding _something.

And a man who reminded Douglas of Clint Eastwood was a man that was, likely, not at all what he seemed.

Trusting Henry was already getting harder, believing his story and taking him this far seeming more like a mistake. He remembered what Walter had said about losing faith in one another, and shivered. Exactly how much would their survival depend on their fellowship? Much? Little?

None?  
"Well?" Walter asked, snapping Douglas out of his trance. "Can I at least take a leak?"

Herring gave Douglas a look that said he'd been thinking the same thing Douglas himself had. He raised an eyebrow, requesting the detective's approval.

"I think I need to, uh, make a pit stop, too," Henry said, shifting in his seat a little.

He was lying.

Why?

Douglas was suddenly very, very paranoid.

"One at a time," Douglas insisted.

"Huh?" Walter asked, glancing from one cop to the other.

"One at a time. I watch Henry, you go. I watch you, Henry goes."

Walter sighed. "Don't you trust me?"

"Frankly, no," Douglas said. "Sorry, but it's just the way I do things. No matter how nice a guy is, he has to pass up a damn good number of opportunities to stab my back before I'll trust him with it turned."

Walter smirked. "Glad to see we're on the same page."

Herring raised an eyebrow. What the hell was _that _supposed to mean?

"Go, if you're going," Douglas urged, gesturing with his free hand. With the other, he clenched his hat tighter, tensing for a reaction. His mind knew Walter was not likely to try anything, but his body wasn't so trusting.

Walter made a snorting noise and walked off into the bushes with a wave of his hand.

He still had a chance to make his plan work, he thought, wading into the tall grass around the shelter. Once he was far enough from their little encampment for the grass to blot out his movements, he fumbled in his pockets for the red paper. Unwrinkling it, he read the following words: _It's for the door. You have to move the metal thing. It's on 12._

The number _17 _was now scrawled in the upper-left-hand margin, where _19 _had been printed before.

Nice and clear. Practically spelled out for him.

Walter cursed under his breath, striving for irony, and did the other thing he'd come to do. With that goal accomplished, he returned to the camp. As he stepped out of the tall grass, he mimed zipping his pants up.

"Oh, knock it off," Herring said. "Your pants don't zip up, you dolt."

Walter glanced down, noticed that he was wearing button-up cargo pants, and rolled his eyes. So much for subtlety.

"You going?" Herring asked Henry, who nodded. "Hurry up. We need to get going before it gets late." He, too, was having trouble shaking this irrational feeling of urgency, that they must get into town before nightfall. He hated it, because it made him feel like a rabbit walking into a neatly-set bait-trap.

He felt all too sure that walking into town, he would be able to feel that imaginary box dropping around him, locking him in to face whatever awaited him there.

Henry went into the grass without responding. He followed the same path as Walter, and in doing so he brushed past the man himself. Walter had time to whisper a short burst of words into his ear without looking conspicuous: _Don't ask. Just run when I say, into the grass._

Henry turned his head to glance at Walter, seemed to realize that doing so would arouse the cops' suspicions, and managed to make the gesture appear to be no more than a quick, involuntary twitch. Probably surprise at having accidentally bumped into Walter in passing.

Those damn cops weren't going to give Walter five seconds alone with Henry, from the looks of it. He needed to talk to Henry alone, just for one minute, _before _they reached town. And there was only one way to do that.

Douglas and Herring lead the way back towards Douglas' car, which was parked in a clearing just off the side of the highway. Walter and Henry stood very close together, behind the officers, and just before Henry stepped into the clearing, Walter very subtly swept his hand up in a warding gesture: _stay put._

Douglas opened his car door, was halfway into the car--and Herring was already on the other side of the vehicle, reaching for the handle on his side of the car--when he glanced at Henry and Walter. The words _what are you waiting for, come on! _rose to his lips, but they didn't make it past his lips.

He saw Walter's eyes, and in them, what Walter was planning.

"Son of a--"

"_RUN!!_" Walter barked, and pivoted on one foot. He swiveled, almost lost his balance, lost a precious second in the confusion, but quickly regained his balance and bolted for the edge of the grass. He didn't glance back at Henry; he just had to hope that Henry had heard him right earlier, and that he would react accordingly.

Douglas had drawn his pistol, but he obviously didn't intend to use it. "_Stop right there!_" he bellowed in a voice that Herring had thus far never heard. That voice was so commanding that Walter almost hesitated, just from the sheer authority behind it, but in the end his instinct won that battle, and he disappeared into the grass.

Now that he had reached shelter and was on a straight course, he risked a look back. Henry was a foot or two behind him, having reacted a split-second slower, but he was keeping up with Walter---_gaining _on him, actually.

Just behind him, maybe three feet, barely concealed by the thick grass, was Douglas.

"What the hell are we doing?" Henry asked in a strangely calm voice, catching up with him at last.

"Trust me," Walter said. He grabbed Henry's right hand firmly in his left and veered to the right with a jerk. "Hold on tight!"

He dared not risk a look back at Douglas, and didn't need to in order to know that the man was still hot on his heels. He fished frantically in his pockets for some thing, some object that could be used to deter the cop, but there was nothing, as he should have guessed.

At last they broke out of the grass and into a small clearing. Glancing back, Walter heard Douglas about twenty feet back. He would burst through the grass in maybe five seconds, probably sooner.

"There!" Henry shouted, pointing to a rotting log sitting just a foot or so to the right of Walter's foot. Without thinking, acting on sheer reflex, Walter seized the moist lump with both of his muscular hands and hefted it in an upward arc towards the spot in the bushes from which he expected Douglas to emerge.

Surely enough, the log collided with Douglas' chest and knocked the wind out of him just as he passed into the clearing. It didn't cause any fatal injury, or even a debilitating one, but it did stun him. He fell facedown in the damp mud, splattering dirty brown fluid up and down his shirt and pants and all over his face, coughing and hacking violently.

"Sorry, man," Walter said honestly, and took off towards the other end of the clearing with Henry. They disappeared into the grass again almost two full seconds before Herring burst out of the grass on the opposite side of the clearing, near where Douglas had come through. He was really moving, and had made it almost halfway across the clearing before he noticed his comrade, sprawled in the dirt to his left.

"Shit!" he blurted, mistaking the mud for blood as he dropped to one knee at Douglas' side. "What happened?"  
"Bastard--" he said, interrupted by a series of hacking, desparate coughs. "--blindsided me," he finished, gesturing weakly towards the fallen log, which lay just behind him.

"You okay?" Herring asked, overly concerned.

"I'll be fine. Get on their asses, and I'll catch up in a minute."

"I'm on it," Herring said, and hurried in the direction in which he had been chasing the escapees before this little intermission. He knew he probably wouldn't catch either of them, not by himself, and especially not in this terrain. They could literally be _anywhere._ They might even sneak up behind him and blindside _him, _like they had Douglas--God knew they would have the opportunity. He ran fruitlessly through the grass for two full minutes before abandoning his goal and hunching over, hands on knees, panting.

"Damn it!" he said, and pounded a fist on his knee in frustration.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**"I'M **almost sure there was a better way to handle that," Henry said, gasping for breath, when they began to slow down.

Walter was pretty sure they'd lost the cop a few hundred feet back, but they kept at a steady jogging pace, just to be safe. "Yeah, well, who's idea was it to hit him with a rotting log? 'Hit 'im with a rottin' log, Wolly-chum!'" Walter said, miming a British accent. "I believe that's what you said."

Henry rolled his eyes, unsmiling. He came out of the tall grass in front of a large meadow that was sprinkled with light frost, but not any snow; not yet. His neck was craned to the west, perpendicular to the road they had taken out of Ashfield. The stance had a certain malevolent majesty to it, sillhouetted against the darkening sky as it was, that chilled Walter. It gave Henry the air of a disturbed animal, one that perhaps senses an impending threat.

"What's got your eye, pardner?" Walter asked, clapping Henry on the back and knocking him out of his stance. "Cat?"

Henry didn't understand the joke. Not that it mattered; he didn't seem to even acknowledge that Walter had spoken.

"Henry?"  
Henry startled Walter by breaking his trance and turning to face him with a solemn look on his face. "Why are we going to...to that town? Really?"

Walter frowned.

"I want the truth. I mean, I have my own reasons--I'll go on without you if I have to--but I'm curious as to your motives."

"You don't believe what I said earlier?"

Henry's lack of a response said more than any answer could have.

"Fair enough," Walter said, throwing his hands up in the air. "One of two things, actually. Either I'm the recipient of ghostly visitations on behalf of my own evil twin...or I'm, simply put, cracking up." He took a step away from Henry, looking away from that eerie sunset.

"Oh, and you'll probably want to see this," he added, taking the red piece of paper from his pocket.

"What is it?" Henry asked, taking the sheet without taking his eyes off of Walter. After a moment's hesitation, he un-crinkled the paper and scanned it. Walter watched as Henry's eyes pivoted back and forth across the page, picking up words and letters and their underlying definitions and connotations like the fantastic visual recording devices they were.

When he finished, Henry paused, not taking his eyes off of the paper.

"Well?" Walter asked, clasping his hands behind his back. "What do you make of it?"  
Henry's eyes met his. He opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitated, closed it, opened it again.

Walter shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

"What does it mean?" Henry finally asked.

"What?"

"What does it mean? These numbers?" He turned the paper towards Walter and pointed to the numbers in the upper-left hand margin.

Before, there had been only a 17.

Now, the 17 was crossed out with dirty black ink, and the number 16 was scribbled immediately next to it.

"It changed again," Walter insisted.

"What?"

"It keeps changing on me," he responded, tapping the paper. "The first thing it said was...oh, hell, I don't remember exactly. Something about going to 'him' and giving him a number. Number 19." He glanced up at Henry. "That number ring any bells with you?"

Shaking his head, Henry answered. "Not...right off, no. Why? Should it?"

"Well, that's the thing...this guy, my evil twin--"

The sound of Henry's fingers snapping cut Walter off in mid-sentence. "Evil twin? Like, he looks just like you?"

"Well, yeah," Walter said, "but--"

"You said you had a visit from him. Like in a dream."

"I did. I've dreamed about him twice now. Three times, if you count just a few minutes ago."

"You had a...a 'vision'...just now?"

"Not now," Walter amended. "Just before we got up to get back in the car. I heard his voice in my head again. Like I did back in the jail. He said to run into the bushes while their backs were turned. I asked him--in my head, I mean--what to do next, and he said I'd figure it out. Then he was gone."

Then, an idea occured to Walter.

"Hey, wait! That guy you saw in your apartment!" He grasped Henry's shoulder. "The one that you mistook me for at first...maybe that's him!"

Henry shook his head. "No, it couldn't be."

"Why not?"

"No, he's dead. I...I made sure."

They were both silent for a long time.

"I see," Walter said at last. "But I don't think that completely rules him out."

Henry regarded him with an unasked question in his eyes.

"Well, it doesn't seem like these guys--or guy, or whatever the hell is behind all of this--are playing by all the rules of reality. This guy, he looks just like me, and he seems to at least know _of _you. Of course, by my own logic, he wouldn't necessarily have to be the same guy in order to know about you. I mean, he could be clairvoyant or something. God knows he has _some _kind of power, or something, 'cause every time I meet him something weird comes about as a result. Like, the first time, I woke up with this in my pocket." He produced the doll-key for his accomplice's examination. "The second time, I met him in this strange, cloudy version of the garden and the streets outside the PD in Ashfield." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I think, when I go see him, that he's doing something to the world around him. Like, he's walking in some sort of...some sort of 'magic bubble' that travels with him, transforming the world around him into this weird, deserted place."

They had begun to stroll during the course of Walter's monologue. Now he turned to Henry, stopping.

"I know it sounds stupid, but...but maybe that's what he did to you. Maybe the reason you couldn't leave your room was because he trapped you inside his, his 'bubble,' and when you killed him you somehow broke his spell over you!"

But Henry was already shaking his head.

"What? Why not?"

"Because that still doesn't explain how he could come back." He stopped, and began to subconsciously make small gestures with his hands as he spoke, as though his inhumanly thick nerve was beginning to thin out. "Look...I don't want to presume to know all of the rules to whatever game this guy...this _thing._...is playing, but I honestly believe that I killed the other guy named Walter. See it this way: If he really is some kind of ghost, or God, or demon--pick your terminology--then he _must _play by _some _rules. There are always limits, even if we don't understand them."

Walter had to admire the way this man thought. It made him feel a lot more confident to hear Henry, whom he had only just met, making a speech about how to deduce the weak point of the man/thing that now frightenened him the most. So it also felt okay to hope that they may yet find a way to get around the forces that seemed to be working against them and stab them in the back, at least proverbially. It was a pleasant change of pace, especially considering the bleak and disturbing nature of the stories told by Herring and Douglas earlier, at the PD.

"So it's really just a matter of finding those limits," Henry continued. "He seemed really determined to take me down back there. When I killed him, his spell, or his world, or his delusion, or whatever you want to call it, broke. Now, why would he have let up on me like that, unless I had killed him? If he had somehow survived, I don't think he would have just let me out. I think he would have tried to take me down with him, maybe trap me in that delusion-world with him even as it was crumbling. It just doesn't make any sense to me that he would let up on me like that, then try to use someone _else _to get to me again. If he still wanted me, then why didn't he just come straight to me again?"

Walter was suddenly very, very depressed. The elation he'd felt from Henry's assurances just a moment ago had felt like a revelation, but a thought had just crossed his mind that he was pretty sure Henry had overlooked. If Henry could overlook something so obvious in his desire to reason this out, then maybe there wasn't as much to hope for as he had imagined. It was like in that movie he'd gone to see last year, _Saw II._ Just when you thought one of the characters had figured a way around the gruesome trial before them, the bad guy had always thrown some crazy new trick in their faces. That was what he felt like right now; like a desparate rat trapped in a maze, like a rat who was trying to find adequate reason to harbor some hope of not only _escaping _the maze into which he had been set, but also _killing _the human who had imprisoned him there.

On the whole, it was a bitter realization, and it did little for his confidence.

"I know why," Walter declare, sullen.

"What?" Henry asked, into the moment.

"Consider this scenario...this other guy--who we'll call 'Wally' for differentiation purposes--let's say that you really _did _kill him back there. So...he dies, and breaks his hold on you. But let's say that he's...let's say 'immortal.' Maybe he only dies for a little bit. Maybe what happened was, you killed him...he lost his hold on you...and he was somehow either ressurected shortly afterward, or never really died at all in the first place, at least not as we mortals comprehend it...so anyway, he comes back, only he's weaker...you know, his power isn't as strong, his hold isn't as far. Maybe he can't reach you because you're out of range."

He shot Henry a disconcerted glance, all but asking the man to approve his theory.

Henry, meanwhile, was all the more disturbed to realize that Walter's grave _was _very close to Silent Hill...and _this _Walter actually _did_ live closer to Silent Hill than Henry did. That fact felt like an omen, driving home the fact that they were dealing with things, places, people they could not possibly comprehend in spite of such efforts.

He suddenly felt very small and very helpless, an abandoned child on his own in the streets of a cruel, contemporary, self-serving world.

Walter shared this unarticulated feeling.

For the first time, Walter wondered if he was not being duped by the other Walter. Was that other guy really the same one that had tried to kill Henry? If so, it seemed very possible that he was just trying to get Walter to bring Henry to him, that he was no more than a puppet in this whole operation. If that was true...

If that was true, then to proceed towards that town would be a serious mistake.

Henry seemed to read this in Walter's eyes. "You're having second thoughts about going?"

"Yeah," Walter said. It seemed useless to lie when their feelings were so easy to read, so thick in the air of this place. He would feel really, really guilty if he somehow dragged Henry into a mess too big to drag him out of. And just like that, one possible significance of the doll-shaped key came to him.

There was another word for a certain kind of doll.

Puppet.

A puppet, an unwitting slave to the powers that be.

He felt an uncontrollable urge to grab Henry's hand, do a one-eighty and run as far away from Silent Hill as possible, before it was too late. But before hysteria was able to fully grip his mind, he recalled something that Henry had said earlier, while telling his story in the jail: _It doesn't matter where you run, where you hide. He'll find you. He found all of us, all twenty-one. One by one, it took him ten years, but he pulled it off. You can't run away from someone like that, you just _can't.

Running was not an option. There was no looking back, looking away, only looking ahead. Even if all there was to see was your own personal hell.

"Onward ever, backward never," Henry said, steadying his pace. They had reached the road by now, and Henry now adjusted his course to the empty shoulder.

"Are you sure it'll be safe to get there this late?" Walter asked, jogging for a second to keep up with him. "What if we get there after dark?"

"We won't. Somebody will come along eventually. We can always hitchhike." He thumbed towards Walter. "And with your new getup, chances are we won't be recognized too soon."

"Unless Douggy and that other guy already have an all-points bulletin on our asses," Walter suggested. "That cop, Herring, seems like the type who would do that, just because he can. Funny, considering he's the one who let us out." He kicked a pebble into the ditch. "But the higher-ups don't have to know that, now do they? 'I dunno what happened, boss, I was just out for my evening stroll, and when I came back they were gone. It wasn't _my _fault, no, no! Of _course _not!"

Henry rolled his eyes, but this time he was fighting to hold back a trace of a smile. Seeing this, Walter lightened up a little, seeking the same amusement in his own tension that Henry was apparently seeing.

"Sorry to be so tense," he apologized. "You just gotta consider what a living hell that other Walter guy has made of my life for the past ten years. It's hate crimes, vandalisms, false arrests, accusations, this and that, because I happen to look and sound exactly like him, and have the same prints and everything!"

"Yeah, you'd think people would be more accepting of people who look, sound, act, and print just like convicted mass-murderers." He spoke dryly, but his face was unusually bright. He smiled in Walter's direction, elbowing him playfully in the shoulder so he knew it was supposed to be a joke. Walter laughed faintly, trying to be as bright and sunny as Henry made it seem possible.

Chumming along, they made their way to the next intersection--which lead to a small town called Canterbury, a name Henry thought was strangely out of place for such an out-in-the-country part of New England, and which was familiar to him for some reason--where they caught a ride with a trucker due west. He said he was going as far as Bangor and could take them, but Walter said that he could drop them off about three miles out of town. They'd figure out the rest of their course from there.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**STEVEN **couldn't believe his eyes.

The moment he'd walked out of the coffee shop, he'd seen Henry, two cops, and a third man with long, dirty hair, stepping out of the police station. He didn't have to fall on his days of high school Physics to realize that they intended to leave, leaving Steven with no clue as to their destination.

"Wait," he said under his breath to nobody. He dropped the plastic half-cup of coffee as he took off in a sprint.

This was his chance to speak to Henry; he might be able to make it in time.

The first cop had already climbed into the vehicle, but the second one seemed to be fumbling in his pocket for something. Maybe his keys.

Damn, why did the sidewalk seem so _long_ all of a sudden? He ran faster.

When he looked up again, the second cop--the one in the coat and the funky hat--had already gotten in the car and closed the door. Steven was almost close enough--now he _was _close enough--to see the man turn the key in the ignition.

"_No!!_" Steven cried out, pushing his legs to their limits. No way. No way was he going to make it.

He cursed out loud, stamping his foot as he tried to pivot around.

The car shot past him, the wind ruffling the cuffs of his pants.

Time was running out; he had to act fast. But where could he go? He was a priest; he would go far to accomplish his goal, but hotwiring a car or holding someone hostage for information was out of the question, although these thoughts briefly graced his clouded mind in a panic. For a moment, he thought he might even lose consciousness under the weight of the impulsive, panic-laden ideas that stormed through his head. He fought back, though, and bit his lip, bringing himself back to reality.

He knew Henry Townshend's name. That was something to go on. The first step seemed obvious; go inside and ask the other cops where the man in the coat and fedora-hat-thing had taken the prisoners. But if he went in there after stirring up so much trouble just to try and see Henry, then he might get _himself _into trouble. Unlikely, but also unworth the risk, especially since the cops were equally as unlikely to bestow such information upon him. Especially if Henry was involved in a serious case.

_Think, Steve! _Think!

His car was still parked behind the Rectory, in the parking lot. He would have to go there and get it--no taxi would take him anywhere just on what he had in his pockets. Like the ignorant fop that he was, he had left his wallet on the desk in his office at the Rectory, right next to his little baggie...which he had forgotten to put away.

No matter; he wouldn't be needing it anymore. The events of the past few hours had thoroughly convinced him that sobering up A.S.A.P. would be the wisest long-term decision he could make at the moment. Of course, he might still want to stick it back in its special hiding place--under the loose floorboard in the main hall, concealed by the tacky silver trim on the carpet, in the little corner between the office and the bedroom. Its discovery might yield more trouble than he was willing to deal with just yet.

_Focus, Steven!_

Right, right. He had to stay on track. His immediate priority was to get a vehicle. He could think about the rest of his plan while he was driving.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

It took him almost an hour to jog back to the Rectory. By then it had stopped snowing, and the sun had begun to set in the west. The sky had grown an ominously orange color--so strange that such a bright, warm color should instill such discomfort in him--and despite the lack of snow, it actually seemed to have gotten colder.

He dashed inside, replaced his baggie, hesitated for a moment, went back and removed the baggie, flushed it and its contents down the toilet, grabbed the keys to his battered Ford Explorer from the top drawer in his desk, and hurried around back through the rear exit in the tiny room he used for a kitchen. Three minutes later, he was cruising uneasily down the high street of Ashfield.

If they were taking Henry somewhere from the police station, it would most likely be to some kind of federal installation--maybe even just another precinct. Steven's only task for the moment consisted of figuring out where that might be. The good news was, he probably had more time than he had allowed himself thus far to believe. In light of this, he was able to calm down considerably, and sort his thoughts out more quickly.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**IT **was getting dark outside of the hospital when Eileen first woke up. In her immediate disorientation, she felt her heart leap into her throat when she spotted the white-uniformed nurse, handling some papers just a few feet from her bed. She was able to relax when her eyes adjusted and her coherent mind returned just a second later, and managed to redirect her initial urge to scream into a perfectly inconspicuous gasp.

Inconspicuos as it was, it managed to alert the nurse of her consciousness. The nurse glanced up from whatever she had been doing--her nametag read _Rachael_--and she seemed uncomfortable. Which made more sense when Eileen realized that the nurse was going through her--_Eileen's_--purse.

"Oh, crap," Rachael said, removing her hand from the purse, clumsy but quick. "Listen, this isn't what it looks like. I'm not trying to steal anything, I was just looking to see if you kept any ID in here. Are you awake?" This latter comment seemed tacked-on in a half-witted effort to conceal her unease.

"Where am I?" Eileen asked, ignoring Rachael's remarks completely. She rose up and tried to prop herself up on her left elbow--and a lightning bolt of pain shot up from the back of her neck, where the first bullet had taken out a fair amount of flesh, and, coincidentally, where a nerve in her broken wrist (to which someone had apparently applied a small cast to during her out-period) seemed to connect to some other very, very sensitive nerve. She didn't realize how lucky she was just to have _survived _being shot point-blank in the back of the neck, much less to have retained all of her brain function. It was nothing short of a miracle.

After informing her of this, Rachael responded to Eileen's question. "You're in St. Jerome's Hospital, Room 203. You were rushed here by ambulance after you were shot." The nurse, still hoping that Eileen would not press the purse-searching issue, felt it wise to stay on her good side by not mentioning the pending criminal charges against Eileen for Assault on an Officer with a Deadly Weapon.

"Room 203...that's the..." Eileen trailed off.

"...same room you were taken into earlier this week," Rachael finished. "I know, it's unusual. What is even more amazing to me," she continued, "is that, although you have those nasty gunshot wounds, there's not even a _trace _of those hideous gashes you came in with just a few days ago. It's like a miracle! How in the world did you manage to heal up so quickly?"  
"How did my purse get here?" Eileen said, suddenly distracted. To the nurse she seemed disoriented, but to clear-headed Eileen, it was a perfectly reasonable inquisition; she was pretty sure she hadn't had her purse with her when she'd been shot at. And even if she had...why would it have been rushed in with her? Was that ER custom? Especially since the site of the shooting would most likely be considered a crime scene; once the victim--her, in this case--had been moved, Eileen was pretty sure that the rest of the scene was supposed to be left alone, as evidence.

"I, ah, I don't know," Rachael said, confused. She wasn't sure where her patient's string of questions was going, and she wasn't even really supposed to be looking in her purse for ID--it wasn't exactly illegal, as far as she knew, but it was often frowned upon if other means were available--so the questions, and her patient's demeanor, only served to make her more nervous. "Look," she said, holding up the index, ring, and middle fingers on her right hand. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three," Eileen answered without hesitation. "Look, I want to know how my purse got here. Did someone else carry it in?" She glanced around, seemed to lose interest in the subject almost as suddenly as she had expressed it, and said, "Has Henry been in at all?"

"Excuse me?" Rachael, who knew more about the differences on the molecular level between potting soil and dirt than she did about Henry (the fact that she was neither a gardener nor a friend of Henry's lending relevance to this) said. "No, ma'am, I don't think anyone's been in here. Why, were you expecting someone?"

The other meaning of the nurse's statement escaped Eileen. "Yes, I was. I figured he would get here in a hurry, especially after--"

_After I shot at him _was how she had almost finished the statement. The memory of pointing a gun at Henry--and at some other man, wearing a long coat, that reminded her of a much older Walter Sullivan--returned to her, and she was suddenly filled with a thousand worried thoughts.

"I have to go," she said, and started to climb out of the bed.

Gasping, Rachael rushed to her bedside. "Oh, no, you can't go out!" she said, gently but firmly placing a hand on Eileen's arm. "You've been shot, ma'am. Twice. There could be damage to your nervous system! If we don't tend to that soon, you could suffer permanent neurological damage--"

"I thought you said I've retained all of my brain function?"

"That was just the initial diagnosis. We still have to do some tests, take some X-rays, make sure that the bullet fragments didn't collide with--"

"I'll be fine," Eileen said, stepping out of bed. But when another bolt of pain shot down to her ankle from the base of her neck, striking a nerve in her stomach along the way that almost caused her to gag with sudden nausea, she wondered if that was anywhere in the ballpark of correct. She cried out, trying in vain to stifle herself, and stepped her right foot into one of the shoes at the edge of the bed.

"I can't let you just walk out of here like that," Rachael said, feeling bad because she feared more for her job than she did for this patient. For this lack of empathy, she blamed the patient's initial _oddness._

"I have to find Henry before it's too late," she said, recalling the...well, whatever it was that had happened to her in Henry's apartment earlier. "He's in serious trouble."

"I'm sure he'll be fine, if it's not a matter of life or death--" Rachael tried to break in, but was cut off.

"It's worse than that," Eileen said. By now she had slipped on her other shoe, slipped past Rachael, and taken her jacket off of the hook that hung from the back of the door. "It's more than his life I'm worried about. It's his life, my life, everyone's life. Our _souls._ Whatever you want to call them."

_Oh, great,_ Rachael thought, _a "spiritual" nut. This'll be a blast._

"Ma'am, you're not physically stable right now. If you try to leave without allowing us to at least examine you, then I can't guarantee your safety."

Eileen snatched her purse from beside Rachael with cat-like efficiency, startling Rachael, who had assisted the paramedics when they had rushed her in on the cart just a half an hour or so ago, and at that time would have bet her life savings that Eileen was incapable of such speed in her condition. She curled one hand around the doorknob.

"Please, just wait," Rachael said, taking Eileen's shoulder. "I'm worried that you're going to get yourself into more trouble."

"That's probably exactly what I'm going to do," Eileen said, throwing the nurse's hand off of her shoulder and storming out of the room.

Rachael thought of calling after her, but after a moment's consideration deemed that useless, she just watched the deranged woman speedwalk down the hallway, trying to conceal her obvious limp while not drawing too much attention to herself.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

In the empty lobby, which also served as a waiting room, Eileen dropped into one of the chairs by the door, cradling her broken wrist in her good one. Gasping, she leaned back into the chair, almost dizzy with effort. That little scene had taken _much _more effort than she had expected; for a moment she actually considered going back up to her room and taking a rest, but then she remembered about Henry and immediately changed her mind.

Before she could pursue this train of thought, a familiar name drifted into her ear from the television mounted in the corner, on the other side of the room.

Standing up--and wincing at the pain, which, although bad, wasn't nearly as crippling as it had seemed just moments ago--she walked across the room and stood in front of the TV.

There, on the screen, was Henry's face. Under his incarceration photo was his full name, and beside it was the photo, name and ID of one Walter Sullivan.

Eileen shivered, but wasn't entirely surprised. It wasn't the right Walter, but it was easy to see how the cops had made the mistake. The only problem with that logic was, why hadn't the guy supplied the proper ID and simply exonerated himself of the crime?

"Henry was...arrested?" she wondered aloud, changing the subject. She had passed out after being shot; what had Henry done to warrant being arrested in that short period? She could remember seeing that detective in the brown coat--the one who had asked about Henry before--and Henry coming up the stairs together, but Henry hadn't seemed to be under any sort of duress at the moment. Whatever he'd been arrested for must've happened shortly after she'd been shot and passed out. Looking at the clock, Eileen realized that just a little more than an hour had passed. She hoped that Henry hadn't said or done anything drastic in response to her injury. Maybe he'd attacked the detective for shooting her?

That was probably flattery; Henry didn't seem capable of such a drastically meloromantic fantasy. No, something else had definitely happened. Although it was probably safe to maintain that as a possibility, even considering how unlikely it was.

Whatever; she had to get to Henry A.S.A.P. The TV was in the process of relating that Henry and his 'accomplice'--a word whose usage prompted Eileen to entertain much stranger possibilities as to the conditions surrounding Henry's arrest--had been taken into custody and moved into a federal facility in Bangor.

"Bangor?" Eileen half-sighed, distressed. That was so far away! And even if she managed to find out where Henry was being held, the chance that she would actually be able to get in to see him were infinitesimal.

No matter; as odd as it may sound, it would make more sense for her to leave him in jail, or prison, or wherever he was right now, at least for the time being. Her primary objective was to get to Silent Hill--_without _Henry--and see that girl. She was discouraged little--if at all--by the fact that she would almost certainly die if she had to face the Other World again in this condition. Considering the stakes, it was worth the risk.

Flustered and just a little bit disturbed, Eileen charged out of the lobby.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Ten minutes later, she had walked the two blocks from the hospital back to the apartment complex and climbed into the driver's seat of her old lime green Geo Metro. It was a stick-shift, so driving it was going to be a pain in the ass...but, dedicated soul that she was, she thought she could pull it off. She would simply have to hold the wheel in place with the arm above her broken right wrist and use her good left hand to quickly shift gears before her bad arm slipped. It would have been cartoonish--even funny--under other circumstances, but the sinister urgency of her task effectively removed all humor from the situation.

Then she was on the road.

_Silent Hill or _bust, she thought. _But first...I have one more stop to make._

The cops had apparently seized her revolver, and with good reason. If she was going into the territory of Silent Hill, she would be wise to include a firearm in her inventory. She was certainly in no case to use a bayonette weapon or other close-range implement; with only her good--but grievously weakened--left hand to defend herself, she would have to rely on the intense power of a firearm to protect her.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**STEVEN, **too, had been watching the news when the report on Henry and Walter aired.

He had driven back to the coffee shop, Joe Muggs, after leaving the rectory, just for some "chill-time," and had naturally been drawn to the TV. The news had just come on as he'd walked in the door, and so he'd reasoned that he could wait and monitor the news for anything that might help him.

But really, it was just an excuse to have another cup of coffee.

When he heard Henry's name on the television, though, he'd almost lost the sip of coffee he'd just taken. Fighting his reflex, he swallowed the sip and set his cup on the table. His eyes locked onto the TV.

Bangor. That's where Henry was.

Then it was to Bangor he would go, Steven supposed.

Without hesitation, he took out a fifty-dollar bill and stuck it in the book that held his bill, and then he dashed out the door and into his car.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**HER **original plan had been to break into the gun shop and steal something--anything at all--which was a drastic but inescapable measure; the only other option would be to request the purchase of a gun and then sit through the waiting period while her background was checked. Even if that _had_ been an option, she almost surely would not have been accepted considering her recent shootout.

However, she found that she wouldn't even have to break in; the door was unlocked, even though closing time had long since come and passed, and when she opened it, expecting perhaps to catch the owner by surprise (how she expected to jump the gunshop owner with a broken wrist and two bullet wounds was beyond her; she figured she'd cross that bridge when she got to it. All she'd need was a big blunt object to whack him upside the head with, since the element of surprise was with her)...but she never would have expected to find what she did.

The store itself--a single-room deal, the walls lined with guns--was free of people, owner included. Eileen glanced behind the counter, through the door that lead, presumably, to the owner's workshop and perhaps even living quarters, and saw that a light had been turned on back there. Raising the bar so she could creep behind the counter, Eileen noticed a large rifle sitting on the glass display case to her right. The rifle wasn't loaded--wasn't even fully assembled--but the largest part of it that was available, the stock, might just be able to serve as the blunt object she needed. She seized it like a club in her good hand and slipped through the door behind the counter, into the yellow glow of the overhead lamplight.

That room was empty, too.

Glancing around, starting to become nervous, Eileen proceeded into the workshop. It was a small square room, decorated only by a massive shelf that spanned the whole left-hand wall and by a small workbench in the center of the room, on the latter of which a small pistol had been left half-dismantled. Seeing that the gun on the table was a police-issue handgun of the kind used by the South Ashfield Police Department, Eileen recalled that the man who worked here, Jerry Hunter, occasionally did freelance work for the APD. It wasn't a conventional measure, but Jerry was the best of the best, and the APD recognized that; Jerry was an ex-cop who had been reassigned to hardware maintenance and other such jobs after a messy shooting, and even now, years after quitting the force, he still did odd jobs for the PD now and then. And Jerry was a crack-shot, too, which made Eileen all the more nervous about breaking into his store and trying to hijack him.

Then she noticed the spots on the floor.

At least, it began with small red spots. They got bigger as she approached the small door at the opposite end of the room, the one that lead into Jerry's private office. By the time she had reached the threshold, the spots had become a dense trail.

Eileen muttered a small, frightened whine that sounded almost like a slurred version of _Oh, my God. _Jerry was dead, that much she knew...but _how_? Who would have done this? Why?

It became apparent once she stepped into the room. It was not a murder at all but a suicide; there was blood _everywhere._ On the walls, on the floor, on the file cabinets, on the desk. And now on Eileen's shoes.

Resisting the urge to gag and vomit, Eileen settled her gaze on the body. From the neck down, it was complete, but everything above the neck had been redistributed to decorate the room. A few tattered rags of meat hung from the neck, the blood already starting to coagulate.

Dangling from Jerry's right hand was a massive steel-plated revolver with custom rubber inlaid grips. The magazine had revolved once after the shot that took off Jerry's head had been fired, and Eileen could clearly see the empty chamber that had contained the bullet that had done the deed.

Panicking, Eileen turned to flee the scene, but just before she crossed the threshold again, she hesitated. The gun in Jerry's hand, technically a murder weapon, was probably the only working gun in the store. Jerry was a very conservative fellow around his toys, and so he usually kept the guns in his shop dismantled and unloaded, except for the one he kept in his desk drawer for self-defense. Eileen wasn't likely to find another weapon that actually worked anywhere in this store.

As much as the idea disgusted her, she would need to take the revolver from Jerry's cold, dead hands. The irony of the deed was that, several years back, when Jerry and Eileen had still been going out, she had told him she wanted him to get rid of the gun because it made her nervous, and that if he didn't, she would take it from him. This had been intended as a stupid joke, but Jerry had reacted seriously, saying that she could "pry it from his cold, dead fingers."

_Can do, will do,_ Eileen thought grimly, grimacing at the feel of his fingers as she peeled them off of the revolver. Thankfully, the rigor mortis hadn't reached his hands yet, or the gun might well have remained there. Disgusted but glad to have the deed done, Eileen slipped the revolver into her purse and left the store in a hurry. She felt bad about just leaving Jerry there, but she couldn't exactly call 911; the police would probably want to speak with her after her mysterious disappearance from St. Jerome's, and calling them--or even the hospital--would only provide them with a lead, and things would only look even more suspicious when the police discovered that the weapon Jerry had used was gone. In the end, she settled for an anonymous call from the payphone just down the block, reporting Jerry's suicide.

Two minutes later, she was doing a steady 35 miles an hour up the main street, headed for the northbound exit that would take her onto I-80 towards Bangor and, ultimately, Silent Hill.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**STEVEN **was very, very nervous about making the trip to Bangor. While he'd been sitting in the cafe awhile ago, something Miriam had said had occured to him, and it was still bothering him.

_You've declared your service._

She had indicated that, by giving Henry his father's silver cross, he had somehow dedicated his service. When she'd said that, he'd assumed that she meant he was declaring his service to _Henry_, as a priest would to a person by the act of taking his or her confession. But later, a few other possibilties had occured to him, none of them pleasant.

Although he was sure that his "services" had been undoubtedly pledged to Henry--the transaction recognized by the dedication of his father's cross--he thought there was more to it than that. He owed Miriam, as well. The _real _Miriam, not the thing that had visited him in the night, although that thing _was_, in its own way, the real Miriam. Yes, he owed it to Miriam to go to Silent Hill and track down the Order himself. Track down the people who had wronged Miriam, make them pay for their crimes.

Maybe even kill them.

But he was a man of God; killing, especially for something so humble as man's laws--Steven saw it as extremely foolish to view man's laws as an enlightened, fair view of the world, as they were so often portrayed--was not acceptable. Killing for revenge, even less so. But what about killing to save lives? Killing one so that others may live?

Steven didn't think that mattered in this case. Even if he found them, discovered that they had killed others and still planned to kill more, he would kill them with rage in his heart, rage for Miriam, and that would be enough to condemn him. Even if he did society a favor by removing a few leeches from its hide, he would still be held accountable in the eyes of God for his crimes; his logic would only be an excuse for what he really felt. No, if he found them, he would not be able to kill them himself.

But, as Batman had said, he would not, strictly speaking, have to _save_ them, either, should someone else come along to do the deed, and should that person be acting outside of Steven's influence.

Maybe going to see Henry wasn't as important as he'd thought...maybe that was just a distraction, intended to keep him from Silent Hill? Hell, maybe some entity who lived there had sent him a demon in the guise of Miriam, imploring him to search for Henry in order to distract him from his true purpose in Silent Hill?

No. That didn't feel right, either. He was sure that, in some obscure but fundamental way, the thing that had visited him _was _Miriam. Whatever other forces were coupled with hers, Steven felt that Miriam's efforts were pure and that he should try to follow the leads she gave him.

He had to get to Henry. He had to help Henry, had to use Henry to help Miriam, somehow. Surely a sin in itself, but Steven would deal with the repercussions later, as per tradition.

Steven pressed down on the gas pedal, almost to the interstate.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**WITH **her purse lying in the passenger seat, with her good hand on the wheel and the other in her lap, Eileen raced down I-80 at ridiculous speeds. Having been on the road almost an hour, she still had a long way to go before she reached her goal. And _God,_ all of a sudden she was so tired! She kept trying not to fall asleep at the wheel, but it was getting to the point where she thought she might just have to stop at a hotel somewhere and sleep the rest of the night before continuing on to Silent Hill. But then she remembered the voice she'd heard in Henry's apartment, and the pictures and feelings and words it had sent her. No, she had to reach Silent Hill tonight. It would be a long drive--hours, yet--but it had to be done. She had already done unspeakable things for the sake of the revelation that voice had given her, so stopping now would be stupid and foolish.

But that didn't change the fact that driving while half-asleep, as she was now, was also stupid and foolish. She never saw the other car coming until it was too late.

She started to drift off again and, in a half-dream-half-awake state, wondered if somebody out there, perhaps some opposing force from Silent Hill itself, was trying to keep her from getting there by putting her to sleep. She wondered if she would ever be able to get there at all; if she stopped in a hotel, would she be able to sleep it off and get up the next morning? Or would she still be tired? Would she, perhaps, just get a little more tired each time, until she could finally continue no longer and just died? Or maybe it was all her imagination...all she knew was that now she was standing next to Henry and that detective, back at the apartments, and everything was okay, there was never an accident or a shooting, there was never any Other World or Walter Sullivan case, it was all just a bad dream, and the detective was just conducting a routine inspection because he wasn't a detective at all but a door-to-door monkey inspector, he was just doing his job to make sure that everyone's monkeys were working correctly, just putting his life on the line so Eileen's and Henry's monkeys would be able to make cookies and cream because there was a monkey vandal in the area and--

_WHHHAAAANG!!!_

Eileen awoke with a startled yelp, and when she saw the oncoming headlights, she attempted to scream, but the head-on collision knocked the wind out of her. If she hadn't been wearing her seatbelt, she would certainly have flown through the windshield and died the death of a pancake on the pavement, but instead she settled for staying put in the driver's seat as the car's back end lifted up and smashed down onto the cab of the car in front of her, killing its occupant instantly by crushing her skull down into her spine and her spine into her ribcage. A spark caused by scraping, constricting metal in the gas tank caused the woman's car to immolate almost immediately, which would have killed her for sure, had she not already been killed by the initial blow. Eileen's car skidded off of the other car, miraculously avoiding the flames, and landed on the curb, where it bounced off and into the ditch, flipped three times, and finally came to a stop upside-down in the grassy meadow off to the side of the road.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**STEVEN **had been driving for almost an hour, far past the posted speed limit of 75 for this area, when he saw a thick pillar of smoke just over the next rise in the road. Curious but not particularly intrigued, Steven let up on the gas just a little bit, expecting some trouble in the road but nothing serious. So it was that much more of a surprise when, as he came down over the next hill, slowing still, he came upon the burning wreckage of a little Dodge Omni in the middle of the road, blood splattered all around the driver's cabin. Off to the right of the road, about ten or twelve meters into the field, another small car, the make of which was unmistakable even in this light--a lime green Geo Metro--lay upside down, but it still appeared to be whole. Damaged as _hell,_ but whole.

Steven took one glance at the burning wreckage of the Omni, the blood splattered around the driver's compartment, and decreed that the car in the field was more likely to hold survivors than the Omni. The flames on the Omni were so high and powerful, the blood so plentiful, that there didn't look to be _any_ survivors. Anyone who survived and still made a mess like that would be screaming bloody murder. Not that Steven could have done anything, anyway; the flames formed a thick, billowing wall almost entirely around the vehicle.

_Damn,_ Steven thought. _They must have _just _refueled._ Then he glanced back at the smashed wreckage of the other vehicle, and immediately began a full-blown run down the embankment.

_Oh, please God let them be all right,_ Steven prayed to the God in whom he no longer entirely placed his faith. _Please, I've had more than enough of this crap today. Cut me a break, will you, God? I've seen enough unnecessary deaths in this lifetime._

END OF CHAPTER 13


	14. Close, Closer

**Chapter 14**

**"Close, Closer..."**

_"...This world's a messed-up town_

_Embrace the pain and see, by taking it back you turn it around."_

Living In Chaos, _The Offspring_

_(Conspiracy of One)_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**"Shit, shit, _shit!_"**

Douglas pounded his fist on the dashboard; sitting in the driver's seat of his car with the door open and one leg on the grass, he used his free hand to handle the radio under the dash. So far, no luck. His only hope in getting the jump on Walter and Henry (well, as much of a jump as could be gotten, considering the circumstances) would be if they were still in range of the Ashfield PD's radio field. If they were, then Hamilton could have ten squad cars out here in less than an hour. Even though that would provide Henry and Walter with plenty of time to maneuver out into the weedy knolls to either side of the road, it would still allow a small window of opportunity to catch them both before they strayed too far.

_But what if they split up, somewhere?_ Douglas wondered in the back of his mind. It would seem logical for them to stick together, assuming that they were in operation together...but if the escape they'd performed was only a temporary cooperation, it would seem just as logical for them to split up after they'd gotten a fair distance from the traveler's shelter. Or, they could even be working together towards some greater goal...perhaps they had split up in order to avoid detection, only to rejoin at a later destination? After all, the cops would be searching for a _pair_ of escaped detainees; if they split up, the chances that someone would recognize them from the news and report them was very small, especially considering Walter's "makeover" and the fact that no pictures of him had been taken after the fact. He'd given Sullivan that makeover to help cover his "escape," but this was crossing the line; Douglas felt more idiotic, more vulerable, than he ever remembered feeling at any point in his career. It was as though Walter had played Douglas from the start, knowing all the right turns to take and things to say. Douglas had suspected that from the start, but in the end, it seemed that his better judgement had been thwarted by his preoccupation with Heather.

Heather--that was what it ultimately boiled down to. If he hadn't had her to worry about, this wouldn't have happened. That was in no way an attempt on Douglas' part to blame Heather for his mistake of trusting Walter, but rather a way to restore confidence in his own abilities. He was swamped, that was all. His primary goal had not been to contain the criminals, but to get to Silent Hill and search for Heather. Under normal circumstances, Douglas would neverhave even _considered _letting a wanted criminal and his accomplice out of jail to take them on what amounted to a field trip.

But that was no excuse to let two prime suspects--possibly the most dangerous in the country, at the moment--to run free across the countryside. He and Herring would have to double-time their efforts if they wanted to contain this mess before it spread and became a political nightmare.

That was the other thing that had Douglas--they had fooled Herring, as well. Herring, who had seemed to be on top of things. Douglas had been relying on Herring's desire to distrust those two as a means of keeping an eye on them. It seemed as though Herring hadn't been as aware of the situation as he'd originally thought. Either that, or Walter and Henry were much more formidable than either Douglas or Herring had first thought.

Before Douglas had a chance to continue his depressing muse, Herring came back around the car and bent over to meet him eye-to-eye. "Any luck yet?"

"Nothing," Douglas spat. His heart was racing.

"How can we have lost control of things so fast?" Herring asked himself out loud. He, too, was unfathomably nervous. This incident could very well mean both of their jobs, if word got out about what they had done. He reared his foot back, as if to kick the sedan, but then retracted it when he remembered that the car belonged to Douglas, not himself.

"I don't know, but we better get our game together, and quick." Douglas slammed the radio down onto the cradle. "We're out of range. We're gonna have to chase them out ourselves."

"But they're at least ten minutes ahead of us," Herring said, wiping his forehead. "And they're in the grass, too. We'll never find them in there, not by car or on foot. What we need is a helicopter."

"But we don't _have _a helicopter," Douglas said through gritted teeth. "So we're going to have to do this the hard way. Get in the car; we're going."

"What? Where?" Herring asked, but he obeyed Douglas' command. "You have no idea where they're going."

"You're right," Douglas said. "Not for sure, anyway." He turned the car on.

"What do you mean?"

"Our only hope is that they were telling the truth about where they were headed." He put his foot on the gas, and they pulled onto the street.

"You mean...you mean Silent Hill?" Herring asked.

Douglas was starting to get annoyed with the dumbstruck tone in his partner's voice. "Yes, Silent Hill," he responded brusquely. "That was where they wanted to go."

"You can't possibly believe they were telling the truth, after what just happened," Herring reprimanded. "You just can't."

"Can you look me in the eye, after what you told me about that man in the green coat, and say you completely disbelieve them, one hundred percent?" Douglas met the officer's gaze, offering him the chance to do so.

Herring hesitated. "Well...no, I mean, maybe not one hundred percent, but...come on, Doug, you've gotta realize they were probably putting us on about a lot of that stuff." In spite of the detective's dare, Herring looked him in the eye.

"But you and I both know that the things they said can easily be true. We've both experienced things in or around the town, some of which are very similar to their stories. I find that a bit too much of a coincidence to bear." He eased the car up to a steady 70 miles per hour.

"But even so, Silent Hill is still an hour's drive away! There's no way in hell those guys will make it there tonight, not on foot."

"Maybe they hitched a ride."

"I think you just want to believe that."

"It's our only shot. I really hope it's where they're headed, because if it's not, we aren't going to find them. And you know as well as I do that we can't go back to APD without those guys in the back seat."

"I still don't think we should jump that far ahead. What if they're going in the opposite direction? We'll never find them that way. This is a really shaky position from the start, and we shouldn't mess it up by trying to think too far ahead."

"Yeah, John, and what if they went to New York City, or the damn moon? We have no way of knowing that in any case, so it's irrelevant. We have a clue, and I'm acting on it. If you want, I can drive you back to APD and do this myself."

Herring backed off, surprised at seeing the detective this agitated. Douglas had always seemed like the cool, calm, collected type; Herring didn't think he'd ever seen Douglas this stressed out before.

Douglas glared at him, watching the road from the corner of his eye, daring him to speak up. "If we get to Silent Hill before them, we can let the cops there know about Henry and Walter, and we can have a watch posted, in case they show up. They'll walk right into our hands."

Herring sighed, defeated. He didn't want to return to Silent Hill, but not just because of Walter's and Henry's escape, or because he didn't think Douglas' idea would work (which he didn't). He was having seconds thoughts about going there at all, ever again. He kept seeing that man in the green coat, and hearing his torn voice. Hearing the sound of the bolt on that huge rifle being slid into place. The determination in the man's eyes. The desperation. Even the weight of his service revolver at his side wasn't enough to comfort him.

"There's just one more thing I need to do," Douglas said, reaching for the police radio.

"What's that?" Herring asked, though he thought he knew. If he got the detective to say it out loud, it might make them both feel a little better--at least now they were doing something. It felt a lot better than sitting out by the road, trying in vain to reach headquarters.

"I'm going to radio ahead to Pleasant River and the surrounding townships. I know the chief in that district; he'll work with us. I can have every cop in a thirty-mile radius looking for those two in ten minutes, tops."

Herring grinned with triumph, wondering why they hadn't thought to do that right away. Probably because their judgement had been clouded by panic. He thought he knew how a murderer might feel, realizing he'd done something he couldn't fix and wondering how to cover his ass before it was too late.

"First thing's first, they'll probably try to get a vehicle. They don't have any money, so they'll have to steal one, or hitch a ride. I can put out a transmission on the upper-level HAM frequencies, so anybody who has a HAM in their vehicle might be able to keep them busy until we show up. Assuming they've tried to hitch, that is."

Douglas pushed down hard on the accelerator, not speeding but definitely booking down the highway, pushing the car and its occupants ever closer to their final destination.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**Steven **knelt at the driver's side door of the green automobile and looked inside through the shattered window. He saw a young woman who looked to be in her early twenties, lying at an awkward angle that suggested pain but no serious injury, and sighed with relief. However, he saw something on her back that struck him as odd--a pair of small wounds that appeared to have already been bandaged up.

Forcing himself to focus, he pried the door open--thankfully, it hadn't jammed in the doorway during the crash--and unbuckled the woman's seat belt. She started to fall into a position which would surely have caused intense pain to her, had she been awake, but before she could, Steven caught her and hefted her out of the car. She was surprisingly heavy for someone of her light build. Oddly, Steven found himself wondering if she worked out at all.

"Ma'am?" Steven said, raising his voice in order to be heard above the crackle of the fire around the other car, the one in the road. "Ma'am?" He shook her gently but firmly.

The woman stirred in his arms, and made as if to slap away his hand.

"Ma'am, I'm a priest," he said, unsure why he had told her that; it was simply the first thing that had come to mind. "Do you have a cell phone?"

Somewhere in the wreckage behind them, the fire seeped into some as-of-yet untapped reservoir of fuel, causing a startling explosion. That caused the woman to twitch in his arms and open her eyes slightly. Her reflexes seemed to be working properly; that was a good sign.

"Ma'am," he said again, "do you have a cellphone? I need to call an ambulance, right away!"

The woman looked at his face, confused, and Steven watched as her eyes were drawn over his shoulder to the burning wreckage of the other, larger car. "What happened?" she asked him.

"You were in an accident. The other driver is dead. Fuel tank ignited, it seems. I was passing by, and I noticed your car and thought you might still be alive inside. Listen, if you have a cellphone, I really should call the ambulance. I'd never forgive myself if I didn't do everything I could to lend a ha--"

"No," the woman said sternly, pulling away from him and rising to her knees. "No ambulances. I'm fine, anyway. I don't need an ambulance."

"Even so," Steven said, motioning to the scene behind him, "I should let somebody know about that."

"Somebody else will report it," she said, pulling herself shakily to her feet. She looked at her car, cursed under her breath, and felt the waistband of her jeans. Her hands fell around some shape there, and she sighed with relief.

To Steven, it looked suspiciously like a gun. He wondered why he hadn't felt it when he'd hefted her out of the car. If he had, he'd certainly have taken it from her, at least until she was completely coherent.

"Listen, I don't know what happened, or who you are, but I don't have to tell anyone anything, I just want to report this accident. Somebody may be hurt, dying, or worse over there." Steven placed a hand on her shoulder.

She jerked abruptly, pushing him back. "They're dead," she insisted, repeating what Steven had already suspected in his mind. "If they were alive, they'd be screaming bloody murder. I can see the blood from here."

Steven looked back, amazed to see that she was correct about the blood. When he turned back around, the woman was pushing on the Geo, trying to turn it back over.

"No," Steven said, approaching her, "you shouldn't do that, you'll hurt yourself. I can take you into town myself, and you can have someone come tow it."

"You don't get it, do you?" she said irritably, not meeting his gaze. "I can't call anybody. If they do, I'm finished. I already shot at them, and now they're gonna think I killed Jerry because I took his gun."

"Jerry?" Steven asked, intrigued and horrified. "Jerry Hunter? The gun shop owner in Ashfield? Is he dead?"

"Yeah," the woman said, continuing to push on the vehicle. "Suicide. Gun to the head. I took his gun 'cause I needed one, and they took the one I had. This one's better, anyway. But now they'll probably think I killed Jerry, too."

Steven grabbed the woman's shoulders again and pulled her away from the car, this time more powerfully, trying not to hurt her but becoming exasperated. "Stop doing that. Listen, I'll take you where you need to go. Where are you headed?"

"Nowhere you want to go," she insisted, finally meeting his eyes.

"Where are you headed?"

"Silent Hill."

The words hit him like a club. He'd been expecting something odd, but this...perhaps she had some significance to him, then?

"Silent Hill?" He asked, for confirmation.

"Yeah," she said, sounding dazed--her words were slurring a bit. "Didn't you hear me the first time?"

"I'm headed there, too," he said. "You can come with me, in my car."

"This isn't something you can help me with," she told him.

"You don't know that. In fact, maybe _you _can help _me _with something."

She looked at him, either disbelieving or just staring blankly--he couldn't tell which.

"Please, just come with me. You can trust me--I'm a priest. My name is Steven Denton, and I preach at St. Jerome's Church of Christ in South Ashfield."

She raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to react.

"Please," he said, beginning to feel urgent. He didn't want to actually be here, at the scene, when someone arrived, because he didn't have time to explain everything to someone who might be passing by. He had urgent business in Silent Hill, and he had a strengthening feeling that this woman was part of it.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"So what's your name?" Steven asked, once they were crusing down the highway in his car at a steady 60 miles an hour. "I don't think you've introduced me yet."

"Eileen," the woman said, nervously glancing out the window. "Eileen Galvin. Listen, you can't tell anyone you saw me. Not until I get to town. After that, I don't care, but until then, you've got to keep quiet, okay?"

"Honestly," Steven said, stealing a glance in her direction--she was starting to make _him_ nervous, with all her jerky movements--"I don't know who I would tell, anyway. Besides, I'm on a bit of a personal day myself. But..." He paused, unsure if he should elaborate.

"But?" Eileen asked him, either uninterested or just distracted. Probably a little of both.

"Well...I'm just curious about something. And since I'm bringing you as far as you're going, I was wondering if maybe you would care to explain to me what you're up to." He knew it was dangerous to ask questions, especially since the woman was both armed and apparently unstable, and even more so because it was seeming more and more likely that she had been involved in some kind of major crime. The marks on her back were the appropriate size for bullet wounds...or were they? Maybe he was just trying to read something into this.

But then he thought of the gun, and changed his mind again. He thought he already had a pretty good scenario worked out in his mind: Some kind of criminal conflict, maybe a drug deal gone awry; this Eileen drives off, and is pursued by the other party, probably shot a couple of times; Eileen treats the wounds herself somehow between the initial shooting and the crash; the two cars get into a scuffle out on the highway and one ends up burning, the other--miraculously--only flipped, and its occupant shaken but not really hurt.

"What, you're a priest so you're not gonna tell anyone?" Eileen asked.

"Sure, I suppose," Steven admitted, his eyes locked on the road. "I think I'm at least deserving of _some_ kind of explanation, seeing as how you refused to allow me to call for help back there. That was a pretty suspicious move, if you ask me. I'm still not entirely sure that agreeing to take you as far as Silent Hill is a good idea." But that last remark was a bluff; somehow, fate had brought them together. He felt it in his bones. If he was going to Silent Hill, she would need to come, too. It just _felt _right, like a plot twist in some story.

"I think you probably put it best when you said you were taking a 'personal day'," Eileen mumbled. "It's hard to explain beyond that."

Steven sighed. "I'm going to try to take care of some old unfinished business. Something bad happened to a friend of mine a couple of years ago, and I got a lead from a...a 'reliable source' that might kinda, well, put a different spin on things."

"Was he killed?" Eileen asked. It was hard to tell if she was making idle conversation, or if the subject actually interested her in some distant way.

"She," Steven amended, "and yes. How did you know?"

"You wouldn't need a lead from a 'reliable source' if your friend was still alive; you'd hear it straight from the horse's mouth."

"True," he conceded. "There was actually more to it than that, but...well, it's a long story."

"I won't be going anywhere real soon," Eileen insisted.

Sighing, Steven continued. "The long and short of it is this: we had a plan to get something from some people in that town. It was a harmless plan; nobody was supposed to get hurt. If it went really well, they'd never even know we were there. One of us went in, and the other stayed behind. It was sort of, you know, a secret, so--"

"You mean illegal," Eileen interjected.

Steven nodded. "I suppose you could put it that way."

"She went in, and you stayed behind?"

He couldn't hold it against her, but phrasing it that way struck a painful chord in Steven. "Yeah. And something went wrong. They found her, and she disappeared after that."

"Disappeared?" Eileen said, this time obviously intrigued. "I thought you said she died?"

"She did. They found the body a week later, in the woods. Looked pretty bad, too. Blunt instruments, sharp stuff. Not a good way to go."

"I'm sorry," Eileen said.

"Don't be," Steven told her. "Anyway, the cops never did prosecute anyone involved, or even order an investigation, even though there was a mountain of evidence. It was a clean-cut murder, would have been an open-and-shut case. I tried to pursue the issue myself, but beyond what evidence was available, and considering the cop's disinterest in the case, I was told I would only be able to pursue a civil case. And I wasn't after money."

Eileen peered over into his eyes. "You're not after revenge, are you? You're not going to drive into town and shoot up some people, are you?"

"Heavens, no!" Steven said with a gasp. "I'm a man of God. Stooping to the level of heathen murderers with no respect for human life is beyond my calling. However...I do seek justice, in whatever form it may appear."

"I just hope you're not one to confuse murder and personal judgement with justice," Eileen expressed, folding her arms.

"I'm not," Steven pursued, almost hurt. "I know what I'm doing."

Eileen decided to abandon the issue, unless the priest had something else to say.

He didn't.

"Well...if I tell you something, you promise you won't think I'm crazy?" She asked him.

"Maybe," Steven said. "I've seen some things these past couple of days...they make me wonder."

Not sure what that was supposed to mean, Eileen shrugged. What did she have to lose? They were going to the same place, and if she was ever going to need his help at all--which was seeming more and more likely, as the pain in her wounds had begun to seep back in as they drove--then she would eventually have to tell him, anyway.

Steven looked at her questioningly, then back at the road.

"The reason I'm going to Silent Hill," she began, sighing, trying to convince herself it wouldn't sound stupid once she'd said it, "is because I've been having these 'dreams.' Or 'visions.' Or something, God knows what. It's like a picture in my head, but it comes to me at all different hours of the day."

Steven seemed more interested than she had first allowed. Perhaps his religious background was partially responsible for that; Christians, among other religious fanatics in her experience, tended to automatically associate 'visions' with God. Perhaps that was a narrow stereotype, but right now, she couldn't possibly care less.

"See, there's this kid in them...this girl, about fifteen-ish, maybe older, I'm not sure...she's in some kind of trouble. And she's in that town. I've gotta get there."

"That doesn't sound crazy at all," Steven assured her without looking at her.

"Maybe, maybe not," Eileen pondered. "All I know is, I feel like I've been going crazy the last couple of days. I think I might have shot at some people, and I don't even remember why!"

Steven's head turned slightly, not surprised but still aware that his suspicions had been confirmed. "Did you kill anyone?"

"I don't _think _so," she said. "I don't remember killing anyone, but I remember being shot. I think I was _going _to kill someone, but someone else shot me first."

Steven almost blurted out _Thank God for small favors,_ but restrained himself at the last moment. She might have taken it the wrong way.

"Anyway...I don't remember much, but I remember some stuff about Henry being the 'Receiver of Wisdom.' I think that had something to do with it."

Steven slammed his foot on the brake pedal, not because he wanted to stop but because all of the muscles in his body suddenly tensed in anticipation at the words "Receiver of Wisdom." Eileen was thrown against the dash, not hard enough to injure her but enough to knock the wind out of her. She gasped.

"What was that you said?" Steven asked, stunned. His seatbelt had jerked tightly against his neck when the car recoiled, causing a red friction-burn to show up there. "Receiver of Wisdom? What does that mean?"

Eileen placed her hands on the dash, steadying herself as she coughed. "What the hell's your problem?"

He reached towards her, but she slapped his hand away. "I'm sorry, but you surprised me. You said Henry was the Receiver of Wisdom? What does that mean? How does he receive wisdom?"

"I don't know," Eileen whispered. She paused, seized by a short fit of hacking coughs, then gasped and finally caught her breath. "It's what Joseph told us."

"Joseph who?" Steven demanded. Then, abandoning his first question: "Did he say anything else?"

"Joseph Schrieber," Eileen said, "and yeah, he did. He called Henry the Receiver, and he called me the Mother. But that was all before...all that had to do with the 21 Sacraments. And that's all over now. So what was the dream about?" She seemed to be asking these things to herself, not to Steven.

"So you don't have any clue what it means?"

"I don't know exactly. All Joseph said was that Henry was the Receiver and that he was the only one who could stop Walter. He said we couldn't run away from him. But he never told us exactly what that meant." She stopped, looking across the halted car at Stephen. "Wait...why do you care about that? Do you know something? Do you know _Henry?_"

"If I told you something, would you think it was crazy?"

Eileen glared at him, sure that she was being mocked.

"No, really...something strange has been happening to me, as well. It all started when Henry came into my church yesterday."

"Henry went to church?" Eileen interrupted. "That's weird."

"Well, it wasn't actually a service he attended. He just dropped by to have a confession. Which is very strange in this case, because people rarely come to me for confessions without attending Sunday services. It's happened before, yes, but..."

"But what?" Eileen prodded.

"Before, it's only usually happened when someone thinks they're going to die. Or when they're about to go through a very trying time. It's like they're trying to 'get right with God' while they still have a chance. That's why it's usually people who've never come to church before; they seem like they're trying to atone for things they've done, and to express regret for never showing faith before the moment when I take their confession."

Eileen looked flustered. "You don't think Henry's going to die, do you?"

Steven shook his head. "I don't think that event was directly related to some future event that will cause Henry's death, no," he related. "But rather, I think that he _believed _he was going to die. Or maybe...maybe he had an experience that caused him great pain, or great sorrow, and it made him appreciate the time he has left on this earth. Maybe he had a harrowing experience that caused him to reconsider his beliefs?"

Eileen was definitely intrigued; she hadn't known Henry for long, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise to her, but all the same, it did--it just didn't seem to fit his personality. Henry didn't seem like the kind of person who would just up-and reconsider his entire belief system. The only other thing she imagined was possible was that Henry had some history with religion, or with someone involved in religion, and maybe he had gone back to try and deal with that history. But even that theory had little support.

Steven sat with his arms crossed and one finger at the corner of his mouth, a gesture of uncertainty. He was obviously struggling with some confusing bits of information; something he was preoccupied with, and what Eileen had said about the Receiver.

It seemed that they had some connection, after all.

"Listen," Eileen said, breaking the silence between them. "I don't know what's going on with all of this--it's still very confusing to me--but I think it's important that we get to Silent Hill as soon as possible. But we also need to find Henry, _before _he gets there. If he goes to Silent Hill, something very, very bad is going to happen."

"How do you know that?" Steven asked, emerging from within his thoughts. "Did that come in your 'vision,' as well?"

"Sort of," Eileen responded. "I don't remember all of it, but I remember that I _have _to get to Silent Hill and help that child. And I remember that I need to keep Henry from getting to Silent Hill."

"That latter task shouldn't be a problem," Steven assured her, recalling the news report he'd seen on TV in the cafe earlier. "Henry's been shipped off to some federal joint in Bangor. He can't even go to the Seven-eleven to pick up a candy bar."

"I heard that on the news," Eileen relayed. "That should keep him busy for awhile...but I still need to see him, anyway. I need to tell him to avoid Silent Hill like the plague. That way I can know for sure that he'll do everything in his power to stay away from there."

Steven believed her...until he happened to look over in her direction, and he noticed the maliciously distracted shimmer in her eyes.

He had a feeling she had something different in mind for Henry. And it made him very uncomfortable.

"But since Henry's locked up for now, I think we can probably go to Silent Hill first. The girl is my priority."

"Silent Hill, it is, then," Steven agreed, turning the key in the ignition. He, too, was getting anxious to be there. He knew that something bad almost certainly awaited the two of them, once they got there, but he was anxious to be there just the same. The image of Miriam's ruined corpse--and that of the creature that had approached him in the rectory--stood foremost in his mind, and although he had told Eileen that he desired justice, the idea that dictated his emotions at this moment was not justice but malice, revenge.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**The trucker **that Walter had flagged down was able to drop them off two miles outside the Pleasant River city limits. From there, Walter and Henry footed it all the way to town, staying just within sight of the road. They were operating on the assumption that Douglas and Herring had immediately summoned backup from the APD and then given chase themselves; as long as they stayed far from the road, there was little chance of being spotted, should the wrong car pass by at the wrong moment.

When they reached town without trouble, Walter suggested that they stop by the CitiWide bank on Myers street. Henry wanted to know why.

"Because I've got some cash in there, and we're gonna need pretty much all of it if we want to get to Silent Hill before dark." He looked up at the evening sky. The sun had already disappeared behind the clouds over an hour ago, and soon it would be completely dark. The hell of it was, they were less than an hour's drive from Silent Hill; if they could just get their hands on some wheels, they could be there in twenty minutes. Assuming that they booked at 90 the whole way.

"How much cash are we talking about?" Henry asked as they rounded the corner of the convenient store that marked the edge of town. "What, are you going to rent a car, or something?"

Walter smiled. "I might. I should probably just buy one. My old one's been impounded, and I doubt like hell I'll ever see it again."

"Buy one?" Henry asked, doubful. "That sounds a bit spendy. We're only going to Silent Hill."

"Yeah, and with my luck, we won't be coming back, either," Walter added, unusually giddy about his declaration. "Might as well blow some money while I'm still around to enjoy it, huh?"

"What if you _do _live, though?" Henry persisted. "You'll have no money. That won't be any fun."

Walter made a sound with his lips: _phhhh. _"That's no problem. I'm only buying a car, man."

"_Only_ buying a car? You make it sound like a trip to the corner store."

"Not a big one, of course. Just a little rustbucket, something to get me from point A to point B. And something that goes _at least _90."

"Just how much money _do _you have, Walter?" Henry asked, raising his eyebrow. He wasn't really interested beyond simple curiosity, but he had a feeling it would pay to keep him talking, to try to maintain a subtle control over the conversation, at least until he heard what he wanted to hear.

"In this account? About ten grand. They won't let you keep much more than that in one account, not in this town. It's damn inconvenient, but I have yet to spend ten thousand all at once, so I guess there's no real harm done."

"_Ten thousand? _What are you, some kind of millionaire?"

"I'm not a millionaire," Walter said, waving his hand at Henry. "I just have a lot of money."

"Where did it all come from? I know you're not famous for anything; the first time you were put on TV for being arrested, there'd be a lot of controversy."

"You don't think I'm controversial?"

"Not in the conventional sense," Henry responded.

Well, I'm not famous, either," Walter agreed, but before he finished the rest of his thought his eyes fell on the bank. He pointed up to it. "There it is."

The building was a big white painted-tile structure, with a tacky green awning hanging across the front. The awning read _CitiWide Bank _in contrasting red letters.

Henry paused, tugging Walter's jacket. "Walter...didn't they take all of your stuff when you were arrested?"

Walter brushed Henry's hand away. "Yeah. Why?"

"How are you going to get any money out of the bank? Don't you need a card or something?"

Sighing, Walter took Henry by the shoulder and urged him onward. "I thought of that...and I'm not really sure what to do, but getting money out of there for a car is pretty much our last shot. It's all or nothing. Now..." They reached the front door, and Walter hesitated. "Pretty much everybody in this town knows me by name. Some of them are friendly, and some of them aren't. I have no idea what is going to happen to me if I go in there, and the teller recognizes me...or if I tell him or her that it's me. They might decide to help me. They might not. There's not even any real guarantee that they'll even believe it's me. But there's a chance. Do you follow me?"

Henry started to nod, hesitated, and finally did. "I think so. What's your plan?"

"I'd tell you, but it wouldn't do any good--it'd just make you nervous. So here's the deal. You stand out here. If something goes crazy, you've got to take this--" He reached into his pocket and produced the red paper. "--and bring it to Silent Hill. Do whatever it's trying to tell us--me--to do. You'll have to figure out what it means by yourself."

"Walter, you're not going to start any trouble, are you?" Henry could all-too-easily picture Walter doing something extreme. Tellers bound with duct tape. Security guards dead on the floor.

_Walter _dead on the floor.

"That's entirely up to them," he said, and stuffed the paper in Henry's hand. "Just do what I said, okay? Whatever you do, _don't _come in. Just wait here. It'll be fine, I promise." And with that, he went inside.

Henry stood beneath the awning on the front of the bank, shivering. It was unusally cold for a spring break weekend.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter stepped inside and glanced around. The lobby wasn't that big, but it wasn't exactly small, either--the front desk had four openings, a teller behind each one and a line of clientele in front of each teller. Three of the four lines were long, but there were only two people by the far left opening. Walter went into that line. He sneaked a glance at the tubby security guard in the corner by the door. The burly black man was positioned so that an unwary criminal might walk through the door, gun raised, and not even see him. Convenient and efficient. But Walter was not an unwary criminal.

_I'm not really a criminal at all, _he thought to himself. _Those damn cops _made _me a criminal. I'm flying first-class on Irony Airlines._

Walter slid his right hand into his jacket pocket and crossed his fingers, closing his eyes and hoping to God he didn't get himself killed--that would only be a risk, of course, if his first plan failed, but he had to set up his backup plan before even beginning with his first plan, and if he screwed _that _up, things were going to get ugly pretty quick.

He turned and stole what he hoped was a nervous glance at the security guard.

There was no way to know if there were more security guards elsewhere in the building; hell, there might even be armed citizens in here. People nowadays were always carrying guns, even the big wigs that owned banks like this one, regardless of any illegality involved. He'd seen one too many episodes of Law and Order where some robber ended up getting shot by some renegade "hero" who brought a gun with him to the bank.

Walter never thought he'd find himself sympathizing with the guy who got shot.

He tried to look like he was fumbling in his pocket for something, and then he looked "nervously" around the room again, making sure that his eyes eventually came to rest on the security guard. The guy didn't even look at Walter.

_Dammit,_ he thought. _It's not working._

He turned back around, and the line was empty. He stepped up to the teller--a redheaded woman who was getting on in years. Like everyone else here, she wore one of those pompous button-up suits that seemed to have the words 'I AM A ROBOT' stamped on the front. Walter had always thought of this kind of suit as a "Declaration of Financial Independence."

"Hello, sir, how may I...help...you?" The redhead's voice trailed off when Walter stepped up. At first, Walter was sure that she'd recognized him, but then it occured to him that she was probably just startled by his spiky presence; his hair stuck up in the front like that of a punk rock singer, and his jacket was the tattered but well-loved thing of a homeless person. She probably expected him to rob her.

"Yeah, see, I've got a bit of a problem," he told her, glancing once more over his shoulder to make sure the security guard wasn't paying attention. He wasn't.

_I could probably just rush the guy, take his gun, and rob the damn bank, all without him knowing, _Walter entertained, and chuckled, fetching a nervous look from the teller-girl..

"Yes?" The redheaded teller--_Penny_, the nametag read, ironically--responded. Must be some new girl.

"See, I've lost my bank card, so I can't get my money out of the ATM. Is there any way I can get a replacement?"

Hearing that, Penny's eyes narrowed, although she tried to conceal it from Walter. He knew that look all too well...it was the look of a person who knew he was up to something. She no doubt thought he was no more than some petty criminal, trying to swipe someone's identity. In truth, Walter was willing to resort to much worse, but if things went his way, he wouldn't have to raise a finger, much less a fist.

Or a gun. Not that he had a surefire way to get one at the moment.

"Well?" he said, placing his hand on the counter and glaring at Penny. "Is there a way for me to replace it?"

"There is," she told him curtly. He had to give her credit for having the guts to talk to him like that, given that she was almost three inches shorter than he, and quite a bit less dense--physically speaking. "But I'll need to see some form of ID. And it could take awhile."

Rude as she sounded, Walter knew she was telling the truth about the amount of time it would take--he'd lost his card before. "Well, you see, that's the other thing...I kinda got my driver's license revoked, so...yeah, is there some way I can prove my identity without it?"

Penny glared at him again, this time with the finest tinge of impatience. "Not an easy way, no. Unless we already have you on file, but...unless there's _some _way you can corroborate the information in our database, I can't complete any transactions. You understand." She smirked as she said that last part.

"Yeah," Walter said, striving for just the right tone of sarcasm. "I do. Hey, can I talk to your manager?"

Penny cast him another one of those condescending glares--_So help me God, if she does that one more time I'm gonna twist her head off like a dandelion and stick it up her ass--_and nodded. "Why, sure, I can." And she turned to do so.

Before she made it six feet, Walter called after her. "Oh, and Penny? Make sure you don't get shortchanged."

She pursed her lips and made an irritable noise, having understood the joke in relation to both her name and her height. She stormed off to get the manager.

Walter turned around and glanced back at the security guard, who actually appeared to be _sleeping._

Walter rolled his eyes and turned back around. Several minutes later, the manager appeared behind the desk. A slightly older--but much more professional and much more polite-looking--black woman, she was dressed only slightly less fancifully than Penny had been. She took one look at him and cocked her head, as though something had struck her as particularly odd.

"Something wrong?" He asked her.

"That voice...do I know you?" This woman's nametag said Andrea, and Walter realized that he did. He used to babysit this woman's children, back when they were toddlers and he himself was only fifteen or sixteen. They went way back.

Walter leaned over the counter, moving slowly so as not to intimidate Andrea, and whispered, "It's me. Walter."

"Walter?" Andrea said. Her face told him she didn't recognize the name. "I'm sorry, I--"

"Sullivan," he added, glancing to the right to make sure that the elderly man in the red vest who was standing at the front of the next line hadn't overheard him. "Walter Sullivan. I live on the edge of town. Lots of Stephen King books, I babysat your kids when they were little."

Andrea only shook her head and favored him with that annoying, braindead look of unfamiliarity.

_God, why can't you cut me a break?_ He cleared his throat. "I was on the news earlier. The cops are after me."

Her eyes widened with recognition, and Walter knew he had struck a chord.

"Yeah, there we go. You remember me, right?"

"You look so..._different _in person," she said.

Walter slapped his forehead.

"What?" She asked, seeming to pick up that he was ridiculing her.

"I got a makeover so they wouldn't spot me. Now listen, I don't have much time. I need your help with something."

"Oh, Walter! Walter Sullivan! Yeah, I know you!" She said, her voice just above a conversational tone.

Panicking, Walter glanced around the room with wide eyes. He turned back to Andrea and said, "_Shhh!_" Then, in a voice just above a whisper: "Do you want to get me caught?"

"Walter, what's going on? Why are the cops chasing you? Did you do something wrong?"

Walter shook his head. "No, it's a long story. Please, you've got to give me all the money in my account, A.S.A.P. I've got places to be, and I need money to get there. _Please._"

Andrea looked at him for a long time, and finally sighed. "Is that what this is about? Penny said she thought you might be trying to get into someone's money, since you didn't have any ID or anything."

"Can you do it? I don't have my ID on me; the cops took it when they arrested me. Please, I'll make it up to you someday, when I can. It's really, really important."

"Do you need it right now?"

"Yes. This very second. My buddy's waiting outside for me, and there's a couple of hardass cops sweeping the streets for me. They'll find me if I stay in this town. I've gotta book. Please, you gotta give me my money."

"Walter, you're asking me to do a lot, you know."

"I know, but this is really, really big. I can't tell you about it now, but something crazy is going down, and I _need my money._" He glanced back towards the door and saw Henry, standing just outside and shivering with his hands in his pockets.

He turned back to Andrea. "Please, you've got to go get my money, right now. I don't have much time. Cash."

Andrea cast a wary look down on Walter--she had two inches on him, easily--and nodded. "Fine. I'll get it. But you can't let anyone know about this. I'm not supposed to let _anyone_ take money out without some form of ID, but even that's no big deal if you consider that you're a fugitive, and that I know, and I'm still doing this." After what felt like an eternity, she turned and went to get his money.

Walter turned around and saw that the security guard was on his walkie-talkie. His eyes were locked onto Walter.

_Shit, shit, shit,_ Walter said to himself, cursing Andrea. She must have blown his cover when she'd practically shouted his name out. For some odd reason, this explanation didn't seem right to Walter. He didn't have time to think about why, but he felt it should have been obvious.

Walter checked to see if Andrea was back. He saw her rounding the corner in the next room. She passed out of sight, and Walter glanced up at the clock on the wall. It read 7 fifteen p.m.

Damn, was it that early?

The security guard was putting away his walkie-talkie, and now he placed his hand on the butt of his gun. He looked like he might be about to make a move, but he remained where he was.

Ready-stance; he was preparing to take action.

Walter looked back over the counter. Andrea still hadn't come back.

_Damn, hurry UP_!

Back at the security guard.

The guard's eyes immediately dropped off of Walter and began roaming half-assedly about the room.

Walter started tapping his foot.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Henry took a deep breath, and exhaled a fine white mist. What the hell was taking Walter so long? How long did it take to make a simple transaction?

He glanced back through the glass doors and saw Walter, standing in front of an empty teller's booth. He was glancing nervously around the room. Well, that was good news, sort of; at least he hadn't started anything. Yet.

Sighing out another white cloud, Henry shivered. His ear prickled a bit. Not because it was cold--which it was--but because he thought he heard something far off, in the distance. It sounded like...

"Sirens?" Henry mumbled. Why did that sound so familiar? It wasn't an ambulance siren...it was something worse.

_Oh, no, _he thought, and glanced down the street both ways. _Oh, no, no, not yet!_

He glanced back in through the doors. Walter was looking at something that Henry couldn't see from here.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Hurry UP!!_

Walter's foot was tapping maniacally on the tiled floor; adrenaline pumped through his entire body, allowing him--or perhaps just cursing him--to feel every hair on his skin, every movement his clothes made against his body, every breath of air that his lungs processed. He could hear even the faintest of sounds--clicking of computer keys from the customer service department through the door to the left of the lobby, shuffling papers, footsteps on tile, conversations about things he didn't care to understand out of sheer boredom. It was making him a nervous wreck. He felt sure that his nerves would simply become so hot that he would just melt right here, in front of the teller's station.

A second security guard stepped out of the customer service center and approached the first one. They made conversation, and the first one--the one who had, no doubt, walkie-talkied the second--pointed in what he apparently thought was a subtle manner towards Walter. The second one nodded and returned to the customer service room.

What the hell were they planning?

Footsteps behind him. He pivoted, meeting Andrea face-to-face.

_Thank God!_

"There's a problem," she said.

"What?" Walter felt his heart leap into his throat. He was getting extremely nervous; if this took too much longer, he was simply going to have to bolt for it. Screw the money, they could steal a car if it came to that. But this would likely be Walter's last chance for a long time to get his hands on some cash. He really, really wanted that money. Even just _some_ of it.

"I need to have some of the information that was on your card."

Walter slammed his hands on the counter. "Jeez, you know my name! Can't you just put in the info yourself? You know I don't have my card!"

"I can't put in what I don't know," she said. "I need some numbers."

She told him what she needed, and Walter provided her with the information from his card that he had memorized.

"That should do it," she said, "but that's not a guarantee. I'll see what I can do." And with that, she disappeared again.

Walter figured that he had maybe five minutes before he couldn't risk being here anymore--those guards were probably setting up some plan to trap him in here until the cops showed up, and Walter didn't want to give them the time to bring it to fruition. If Andrea hadn't completed his transaction in that time, he would just have to leave. And unfortunately, he would leave a big, heaping pile of clues--a trail for the cops to follow--in his wake.

Walter couldn't help himself; he began pacing around the room, trying to give the security guard a wide berth. It couldn't have helped him as far as looking suspcious--all it did was draw attention to him--but he had to do something, to _move,_ or else he was going to explode with tension.

Up on the wall, the clock was ticking away what could very well have been the last surviving minutes of his freedom. Three minutes to go. Still no Andrea.

Walter finally stopped against the wall, opposite the clock. He wanted to be close enough to the door to be able to duck through it under fire, in the event that the guards tried to stop him with gunfire, should he try to escape. But he also wanted to be close to the counter, should he still be able to get his money.

One minute. Things weren't looking good. Walter started towards the door, moving as inconspicuously as possible, not actually walking but rather gradually sliding his feet across the tile. He saw the security guard by the door reach for his pistol in a slow motion, ready to draw as soon as Walter hit the door.

When he saw Andrea come out from the back room with a huge wad of bills in each hand--all 100's, he could see from here--he almost cried with excitement. He saw the guard's eye cross him briefly, and he knew he would have to be quick. He knew now that he wasn't going to leave this building with all of that money, but even a single stack would do.

Walter started towards the counter. When he was two feet from it, he heard a deep voice say, "Sir!" He ignored it and proceeded to the counter, grabbing three stacks of 100-dollar bills that had been bound with white tape and stuffing them into his pockets. He took three more and heard the voice again: deep, scratchy. The voice of the security guard, no doubt. "Sir, put down the money, please."

Walter continued sticking piles of hundreds into his coat pockets--he managed to get six more stacks--before he heard the click of a handgun hammer.

_Shit_, he thought. _Waited too long._

"Walter Sullivan, you're under arrest."

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Henry heard the sirens getting closer, and he found himself wondering what time it was. He'd forgotten his watch when he'd left the apartments with Douglas. He looked around again, expecting to see cop cars come screeching around the corner in huge numbers--the sirens had gotten louder over the past minute or two--and he wasn't going to wait much longer. If the cops showed up, Henry had no idea what he was going to do. He couldn't ditch Walter here, but he couldn't abandon his quest for the truth, either; he needed to get to Silent Hill and find Walter's grave. He turned around and looked back into the bank through the glass...and saw a man pointing a gun at Walter.

_Oh, hell,_ he thought. _You really thought I was just going to up and leave because someone pointed a gun at you?_

He opened the door.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter raised his hands up and turned around to face the security guard.

He was prepared to do anything at all to avoid going back to prison; he'd rather live, given the opportunity, but if he didn't make it to Silent Hill, some very bad things were going to happen, very bad indeed, and he didn't want to be here when that happened. So if it came down to die, or miss this opportunity to reach that cursed town, he would take death. What an irony, indeed, he thought.

But as it turned out, that wouldn't be necessary; just as Walter opened his mouth to speak, Henry opened the front door and stepped in behind the guard. A cool breeze drifted in, but the guard was too preoccupied with Walter to notice. Lucky for Henry.

Henry put a finger over his mouth when he saw Walter looking at him. Walter stared blankly, hoping the guard wouldn't follow his line of sight and realize that someone was behind him.

Henry got right up on the guard before he was noticed; the guard pivoted to face Henry, but just a second too late. Henry brained him with his interlocked fists, and while the guard was stunned, Henry snatched the gun out of his hand and pointed it at him. "Walter, come on! Let's get out of here!"

"Amen to that!" Walter said, but as he stepped past the floored body of the moaning guard, a gunshot rang out, startling him. He turned around.

The second guard had come out of the customer service department. He was shooting at Henry. The first shot had missed, but they couldn't be certain that future shots would be as inaccurate; Walter seized Henry roughly by the shoulder and they stumbled out through the door together. Two more gunshots rang out, intermingled with cries of, "Stop!" But neither of them hit Walter or Henry. Instead, they cracked both glass panes on the center pair of doors, spraying small shards of glass every which way.

"Where to?" Henry asked Walter. "You know this place better than I do."

Walter pointed down the street to their right. "There's a used-car shop down there. Put that thing away before somebody sees it!" He tapped the barrel of the handgun Henry had taken from the guard.

Henry accordingly tucked the gun into his waistband, covering the handle with the tail of his shirt.

"That guy might try to follow us," Walter said. "If he does, shoot him."

"But--"

"This isn't the time for justice and morals, Henry. We've got to do what we've got to do. You stand still when it's do or die, and you get killed. That's why it's called 'do or die.' If the guy follows us, shoot him."

Henry frowned, but continued to follow Walter in a full-blown run down the street.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

They stopped at Rod's Used Car Lot, two blocks down from the bank. Walter burst into the main office and barked orders at the man who sat behind the desk in a business suit, sucking on a stick of black licorice. He was a relatively young guy, maybe thirty-ish, with a courteous but not attractive mop of red hair on top of his square head.

"I want the cheapest thing you've got that'll run. I've got twenty-five hundred cash, and I'm in a hurry."

The man behind the desk leaped to his feet at the mention of cash. "Sure thing, buddy? Whatcha lookin' for, a vacation ride? Road trip? Family outing? I got everything you need, just--"

"Cheap. Moves. Now. Chop-chop!"

The man in the suit looked baffled, but he seemed to be aware of the situation; Walter's urgency seemed to have brought home exactly how much of a hurry they were in. "Sure, I got this old thing out back. It's not pretty, but it runs, and it gets hella gas mileage--"

"We'll take it," Walter said shortly. "Come on."

The salesman, who introduced himself as, of all things, Sam Hill, led them to a lot out back where, he told them, they kept the 'junk.' He showed them a beat-to-hell 1994 Lime Green Custom Ford Taurus four-door sedan, pointing out the shoddy paint job and loose hinge on the back driver's-side door.

"You guys sure you don't want something a little dressier? I mean, even two thousand can buy a lot better than this."

"It'll get us where we're going," Walter assured him. "Keys?"

"Well, you've still got to fill out all the necessary paperwork and such. I mean, there's a lot of--"

"Look, if you give it to us on the spot, right now, and let us drive out of here, I'll double my offer. Four thousand. Just _give me the damn keys._"

Sam looked as if to say, _I thought you said you only had twenty-five hundred?,_ seemed to decide whether or not to press the issue and up the amount, and wisely decided against it. Walter didn't want to rob the guy, but if Sam costed them any more time, he would have no choice.

In the distance, the sirens had become very loud indeed; they sounded like they were no more than a couple of blocks away. The bank was right down the street; it wouldn't be long after the cops got there that they would find Henry and Walter, if they were on foot.

Sam looked at Walter with a gleam in his eyes--part shameless greed, part mystification at the idea of a man paying four thousand dollars for a beat-to-shit 1994 Ford Taurus--but he slowly nodded, seeming to win some kind of inner battle with his conscience. For the first time in his life, Walter found himself thanking God for putting greedy men on the earth.

"Sure, I guess," Sam said, and he stepped inside the building. When he emerged a moment later, he had a ring with a key on it twirling around his index finger. "Here you go. Listen, I couldn't take more than three thousand for this thing, tops. I'd just feel guilty if I took any more."

"Whatever," Walter said. He snatched the keys, took out three of the six wads of hundreds, and handed them to Sam in a way that, under other circumstances, would have seemed very rude. "Come on, Henry, let's get out of here."

Henry climbed in the passenger seat just as Walter was turning the key in the ignition. When it started all right, Walter shut the door and locked it, and Henry did the same.

"Thanks a bunch," Walter told Sam. "I'll remember you guys next time I need one of these babies, all right?" And with that, he drove off in a hurry.

Sam stood and watched them drive off, wondering what he had gotten those two out of...or what he had gotten himself into.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter stared straight ahead, trying to stay calm. His nerves were shot; he couldn't remember ever being this close to fainting with sheer excitement at any time in his life. His hands were shaking; he could barely hold on to the wheel. How _close _they had come to being caught back there! They had probably escaped with minutes to spare. The bank security guards had underestimated them--and had been bested by the forces which dictated "luck"--but Walter had a feeling that such wouldn't be the case next time around. So, he decided, from this point on, he would make it his goal to make sure there _wasn't _a 'next time around.' He would not allow himself to be put between a rock and a hard place like that ever again, as long as it was humanly possible to do so.

Henry took the gun out of his waistband--it was poking painfully into his side, and he also wanted to check and see how much ammo was in it--and laid it on the seat between them. "It's a .45," he said. "Not the best, but definitely good."

"The problem is," Walter told him, "the kind carried by security guards doesn't usually hold much ammo. Maybe 7 shots, if you're lucky."

Henry picked up the gun and released the clip. "Let's just hope he remembered to load it this morning." He did; there were eight bullets inside, the full capacity. Henry slid the clip back in. "Eight bullets. I guess it's a good thing we won't really be needing this thing; the cops are all back there at the bank. If we hurry, we can still make it out of town without causing more of a stir."

"Oh," Walter said, shaking his head, "we don't need that for the cops, my friend. Not at all."

Henry started to ask what he meant, but realized that would be stupid; he already knew what they would be using the gun for, if at all. Hopefully, they wouldn't even need it, like he'd said...but hope wasn't always enough.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter and Henry passed the Pleasant River city limits approximately seventeen minutes after their ordeal at the bank had concluded; by ten minutes to eight on that evening, they were en route to Silent Hill.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Twenty more minutes until they reached their destination.

END OF CHAPTER 14


	15. Nightfall

**Chapter 15**

**Nightfall**

_"A truth appalling_

_Our maker comes a-calling_

_The Noose is falling_

_And enemies are rising."_

_--_The Noose, _The Offspring_

_(Splinter)_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

It was ten minutes to eight o'clock when Douglas' car reached the turnoff to County 73, the route to Silent Hill. A big sign, hanging from suspension cables attached to a post over the road, read _County Route 73 _and _Silent Hill 2 miles_, complete with an arrow pointing in the right direction. Douglas turned onto the exit.

Remembering Herring's story from earlier, Douglas kept expecting to encounter some strange roadblock on the way, but the road was clear. No sign of the wall of broken cars that had prevented Herring from getting into town.

Herring didn't seem so cool or calm anymore; ever since the sun had finally disappeared over the horizon about ten minutes ago, he'd been fidgeting and glancing all around the car, as if he expected the man in the green jacket to appear behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler and run them off the road.

_Better not even think that way, _Douglas thought to himself, recalling his prior ordeal in the town. _Don't want to give him any ideas._

But there was no sign of him, either; even the fog suspended over the road seemed to have cleared immeasurably since Herring's last visit. The road was visible for several miles ahead. This should have made Herring relax a little, but for some reason it didn't.

"So what's the plan?" Herring finally asked, to break the tension. "Assuming this is where they're headed, they could come into town from any direction. It's too much ground for us to search alone." He had to raise his voice just a bit to be heard above the radio, which had been set to a rock station.

"We should go by the police station. Have a watch set up. The news stories have been good at stirring up tension; we can use that to our advantage. Maybe gain a little ground, get these local guys to help us out. Not that they'd have a problem, since they're probably familiar with the original Walter Sullivan story."

Hearing the detective say it out loud made Herring a little more relaxed. If he could just focus on doing what they'd come to do, they could be in and out of here before anything had a chance to happen. At least, he hoped.

As they passed the first sign welcoming them to town, an unfamiliar song began to play on the radio. Douglas figured it must be by one of those new pop-rock bands that were all the rage nowadays. Even though he'd never heard it before--and had no memories to associate it with--he felt a chill go down his spine when he heard the chorus:

_"City of the damned,_

_At the end of another lost highway_

_Signs misleading to nowhere..._

_City of the damned,_

_Lost children with dirty faces today_

_No one really seems to care..."_

"Turn that off," Herring said, and obliged his own request. Apparently, he'd gotten the same vibe.

They passed a roadsign telling them that they were on County Route 73. Maybe a mile out of town. Douglas felt an unpleasant anticipation welling in his gut. This road would eventually become Nathan Avenue, the main road in Silent Hill. Then they would officially be _there_, for better or worse. And he still had the matter of Heather to deal with; Brookhaven was on the way to the station, so he might be able to take care of that right off the bat...but he knew it wouldn't be that easy. He _could _ask Herring to drop him off at Brookhaven, and then send Herring on to the police station...but he had his doubts about leaving Herring alone. Especially if that man came after him. Herring wouldn't have a chance. He wondered if the man in the green jacket would approach Herring while he was with Douglas.

Maybe he should just go on to the police station first, then come back to Brookhaven. Yeah, that seemed like it would make sense; they could stay together that way.

Herring was rapidly glancing out all of the car's windows, apparently trying to decide if the atmosphere was a weird one. So far, neither of them had seen any people, but that didn't necessarily mean anything funny was going on--they had only passed a few small houses on the outskirts of town, none of which looked like they would seem busy even much earlier in the day. Besides, It was a small town, and it was getting late. Some people were probably having dinner about now, others just getting home from a long day at work. Even with this thought foremost in his mind, though, Herring was not at ease.

Up ahead was a rest stop and, further down the road, a tunnel below an overpass. As they passed by the rest stop, Herring looked out the window and saw a beautiful view of the lake around which the town had been built. A sign stood on the overlook that read _Toluca Lake, _and had an arrow pointing down to a footpath that lead into the brush and, presumably, towards the lake. It looked like a fun place to just hang out, relax, sip some booze with the vatos.

The darkness beneath the tunnel held an uncanny menace; both Douglas and Herring felt their senses sharpen as they approached it. Paranoia at work, honing their reflexes--although temporarily--to a razor-keen edge. Should something happen under there, they would both be ready...they hoped.

But once they passed through the tunnel without a problem, they both found themselves feeling silly for being afraid of the dark.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Douglas' car slid neatly into the space right in front of the Silent Hill PD, and he and his partner exited the vehicle. The fog was a bit thicker here in the shopping district--visibility was limited to about twenty feet--but it wasn't too bad. One could still see far enough to drive, in the event that it became necessary again.

Douglas stepped up to the front doors of the police station and pulled the handle on one, expecting it to open. When it didn't, he cursed under his breath, befuddled.

"What's the deal?" Herring asked, following him. "Locked?"

"Yeah."

"That's weird," Herring said, trying the door himself. "It shouldn't be locked. This place should be open twenty-four-seven." He jiggled the handle to no avail.

"It's a small town," Douglas noted. "Old, too. Could be a Constable instead of a police force."

"Maybe, but despite the obvious problem with that--" he pointed up to the massive heading on the side of the building, _Silent Hill Police Department._ "--Even a constable would have one or two hired hands in a town this size. It's just a bit too big for one man to manage."

"You'd think," Douglas said, irritating Herring slightly.

"Well, it makes sense that way."

"Whatever the case, they're not 'open' right now," Douglas said, going back towards the car. "So, what do we do, then? We can't just forget about it. We need manpower. There's no way for us to watch every single road into town. Hell, Walter and Henry might even try to come in on foot...if they do that, they aren't even restricted to the roads. They could come into town from literally _any _angle."

Herring shrugged. "We could always ask somebody who lives here. I mean, _somebody's _got to know where we can get ahold of some law enforcement here."

"I suppose," Douglas consented, feeling in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. He found a packet, produced his lighter and lit one, then replaced the pack.

"You know, now's really not a good time," Herring said, motioning to the cigarette.

"I know," Douglas said. "But I need one. My guts are in a knot right now."

The officer had to agree with that. "Mine, too. It's this place...it's so damn _eerie._ There's nothing really wrong with it, at least on the surface...but it's like you can feel the eyes looking out at you from the houses."

"That's one way to put it," Douglas said, puffing on his cigarette.

Herring stepped onto the sidewalk, peering around him at the ghost-town scenery. He couldn't see past a block or so because of the fog, but he didn't need to. "You know what it makes me think of?"

"What?"

"This old movie I saw, back when I was still in high school...'The Amityville Horror.' Not the P.O.S. remake, but the original one. The very first one. You remember that?"

"I never went to a lot of movies back then," Douglas said apologetically.

"Well, it's about this weird house where a lot of creepy stuff goes on. And there's this one part where this nutty lady comes into the house, and they go down in the basement, and she says, 'There's something here.' Pointing to this wall in the basement. It's different from the other walls, 'cause it's made of this haggard-looking stone. Well, this lady starts trying to break the wall down, and she finally does, and there's _another _wall behind it. A red one. It's made of the same kind of brick."

Douglas eyes Herring cautiously, exhaling a strand of smoke. "So the town's like a wall behind another wall?"

"I wasn't finished yet. See, this lady, she sees something right after she breaks that wall down. She starts talking in this weird voice, and she says, "It's the gate to hell! Cover it up, cover it up!" Herring felt himself shiver as he recalled the moment he'd seen that part in the theater. "This town reminds me of that scene...it's the only thing I ever saw on a screen that gave me trouble sleeping. I used to lie awake at night, thinking about that scene. What she meant by that. They never did go back to that later in the movie; it just kind of got skipped over. I always wondered what might have been back there...but I was too scared to think about it, because I had this crazy feeling--the kind that only comes to kids who watch scary movies--that if I wondered too much, I might get a chance to actually find out. And you know what always happens to the guy that finally finds out."

Douglas tilted his head in that word-from-the-wise kind of way. "Sounds sort of freaky."

"It was," Herring agreed. "_Very_ freaky. Even in spite of the crappy acting, that scene resonated with me. And that's how this town feels to me. It's like, on the surface, you've got this empty town--a 'normal-looking brick wall,' so to speak. But beneath it...behind it, there's something worse. A red brick wall, with something really horrible behind it. Something that's so bad, even a crappy actor couldn't screw up the delivery if they told you what it was."

Nodding, Douglas dropped the butt of his cigarette on the pavement and ground it up with his shoe. "That sounds about right. That definitely sounds like this town. To a T."

Shivering and looking around him, as if anticipating something right out of the movie to jump out at him, Herring opened the passenger-side door and got in beside Douglas.

"Where to, then?" Herring asked.

"Well, I have some unfinished business at Brookhaven," Douglas said unceremoniously. "I think I'll check over that way, and afterwards we'll come back and see if these guys are back. If not--which seems more likely--we'll go to the town center and see what's up."

"What if nobody's at the town center, either?" Herring mentioned.

"That's your problem," Douglas said, sounding fed-up. "You're a 'what-if' guy. Stop worrying about 'what-if.' If we could tell 'what if,' then we wouldn't need to plan ahead. Do you follow me?"

Herring didn't respond, clearly insulted by the detective's demeanor.

"Look, I'm sorry I snapped," Douglas said, "but it's the truth. The only way we're going to get through this mess is if we take it one step at a time. Make a plan for every possibility, act on it. Take it as it comes."

"Don't move to fast," Herring sang under his breath after a short hesitation, cueing Douglas. "You want your love to last."

Grinning, Douglas joined in. "You've been moving much too..."

"Faaaast!" they sang together, the tension between them eliminated for the moment. With that said, Douglas keyed the engine.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

The more he thought about Herring's analogy, the more accurate he realized it was; the town seemed like it was trying to hide from them, somehow. He _knew _there was something wrong here. He'd been here before, about three years ago with Heather--and again, three days ago, just before the arrest of Walter--and he'd seen things both times. Herring had been here, too, and had an experience of his own. So why wouldn't those things appear to them now? He knew they could, because they had. What reason did the town have for holding out on them like this?

Whatever was going on, Douglas didn't like it. He couldn't shake his feeling that an impending threat awaited them.

When they reached the town hall, Herring turned out to be correct: nobody was there, either. The difference was, the doors were unlocked.

The lobby was rather large, even for a town center, at least for a town this small. They couldn't see any people from the lobby; the front desk was empty, and the doors leading off of the main lobby were all locked.

"They're glass doors," Herring noted. "We could break them down."

"What would be the point, really?" Douglas asked. "There's obviously nobody here. And if there _are _people here, and they're just somewhere else right now, what are they going to think when they come back and we're ransacking the place?"

Shrugging, Herring said, "Hey, it's an idea."

Douglas checked behind the counter, just to be sure, and found nothing. "Okay, what now? Nobody at the PD, nobody at the town hall...something's up."

"We knew that already," Herring said. "What did you expect, a perfectly normal town? You can't possibly have thought that, not after what I told you. Or what you saw."

"Well, I figured it was a shot. Whatever the case, let's figure out what to do. We came here to take care of those two, and we came to find Heather."

"Yeah, about that," Herring said. "Where's she supposed to be? This place looks deserted. I don't think we're going to find anyone here."

"She's special," Douglas insisted. "She'll be there, at Brookhaven. Getting to her won't be easy, I'm sure--_because _she's special--but she's here. I'm sure of it."

Herring doubted this, but he had to take Douglas' word for it. From the story he'd told earlier, it would seem that Douglas knew more about the workings of this place than Herring himself did.

"So, Brookhaven it is, then?"

"Not yet. We should at least _try _to get ahold of some of the cops in this town first. Maybe they're all holed up somewhere?"

"You mean like in a bomb-shelter?" Herring scoffed.

"Not exactly," Douglas responded. "I mean, maybe something's going on somewhere, and that's where everybody is. Some kind of meeting."

"That would be here, if anywhere. And there's nobody here."

"Not necessarily. It could be a special occasion, or something." As he said those words, he felt like he was bullshitting himself. It was just that normally reliable Sherlock Holmes instinct--the well-honed desire to entertain, and then eliminate, all but the impossible.

"Come on, you can't possibly believe that," Herring scolded. "I'll bet that man in the green jacket has something to do with this."

"Well, if that's the case, maybe we should be looking for him?" Douglas offered, half-sarcastic and half-honest. "You might be right about that."

Herring raised a fist, as though to flip Douglas the bird, but held back. It was a half-hearted gesture, but it was still angry. Herring had assumed the detective was taunting him.

"Well, either way, we need to go to Brookhaven before too long. If we've got nowhere else to go, let's go there. Knock that out."

"Sure, why not?" Herring said, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "I'm drawing blanks here."

On his way back out to the car, Douglas found himself thinking of the walls. The red wall, in particular. Was it a coincidence that the wall in the movie had been red? Probably. But it was still creepy. He kept thinking of that qote--"It's the passage to hell!"--and found that it had begun to chill his bones.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

While they were heading down Nathan Avenue, back towards Brookhaven, Douglas opted to try the radio. When he did, an extremely loud blast of feedback startled him, and he quickly switched it off.

"Damn," Herring said, sticking his finger in his ear. "I think I've gone deaf!"

Douglas didn't say anything. He had a bad feeling about this. He was used to being able to plan ahead and sort things out--to think out several possible scenarios in advance, even unlikely ones, and prepare himself for them--but in this town, literally _anything _was possible. There was no possible way to try and second-guess what would happen next, because _anything _could happen.

Anything at all.

However, if he hadn't been thinking about that--and if he hadn't, in the midst of this sudden wash of paranoia, slowed the car down to under 20 miles an hour--he might not have had time to swerve when he saw the hole.

"What the hell?!" Herring shouted, pointing ahead of them. "Doug, watch it!"

Douglas saw the ravine and swerved, trying to run off of the road and onto the grass, but his back tire hit something in the road and jerked abruptly to a stop right there in the middle of the road. Douglas and Herring got out of the car immediately and stepped around to the front.

The crevice was less than ten feet from the front bumper.

Herring stepped up to the edge of the huge crack, which ran straight across the road and continued for a long ways in either direction and extended downward as far as the eye could see--which wasn't far, because the fog had started to thicken.

"What the hell is this?" he asked Douglas. "This wasn't here when we came through earlier. I know it wasn't! This is the way we came through, right?"

"Yeah," Douglas said, standing next to Herring. "It is." He leaned over the edge and peered down, but couldn't see anything at the bottom.

If there was a bottom.

However, about halfway down the side of the crack, he _could_ see a streetlamp post, sticking out like some kind of awkward metal plant. It seemed as though the road had been simply cracked in two and folded down like a piece of paper, making further passage impossible.

_And Brookhaven's right around the corner, too,_ Douglas pondered. _How did I know it was going to come to this?_

"What now, D?" Herring asked, rising back to his feet. His hands fell instinctively to his hips, his right hand caressing the butt of his gun. "We can't go this way."

"Not in the car, we can't," Douglas said. "We're going to have to continue on foot."

"What? That's crazy, Doug. With that man running around out there somewhere? He'll catch us if we don't have a getaway vehicle."

"He won't be bothering us," Douglas said. He went back to the car.

"How would you know?" Herring pursued, following him. "He hasn't yet, sure, but that doesn't mean he won't!"

"This town is pretty big, even for a backwater dump," Douglas insisted, reaching into the back seat and taking a briefcase out from under the front seat. He opened the briefcase and displayed three spare clips for the gun he normally kept in his shoulder holster, and two spare loaders for the gun Herring had with him. He passed the two for Herring's gun to their appropriate owner, and placed the three for his own gun in his own pocket.

"Maybe it is, but on the off-chance that we _do _run into him, we're history," Herring insisted. "He's crazy, he's strong, and from what I've seen, he's invincible."

"Just calm down," Douglas told him, shutting and locking the back door. "We'll be fine. If anyone's in danger right now, it's me."

Herring snorted. "Yeah, you should be real worried about your safety. It's me he'll come after. I'm the one he's got unfinished business with."

Douglas had started walking towards the curb. "For all you know, he was just coming after you because you were the first person he saw. Hell, the guy had a barricade set up at the exit. He might have even left you alone if you'd just left, instead of fighting back."

"He shot at me without warning," Herring reminded him. "That's enough for me. He would have killed me on the spot, with no provocation, if he'd gotten a chance. You can't justify that."

Douglas walked fifty feet before the ravine's width began to dwindle, and another thirty feet before it disappeared completely. He crossed back onto Carroll Street and started walking south along the sidewalk.

Herring fell in close behind him. "You'd be afraid of him too, if you'd been there," he said, with less vigor but with the same level of conviction. "Just trust me on that one."

"I'm sure I would," Douglas said. "But again, I really don't think he'll be here. The way you describe him, he doesn't seem like you're very high on his list of priorities. Especially since he dropped you and took off over some 'Ceremony' when he could have killed you in another second or two. Something that urgent to him _has _to be more important to him than you."

"I suppose," Herring said, somewhat defeated. "But I'm still not gonna get a moment's peace until we leave this town."

"You came here and expected a moment's peace?" Douglas said. "That's almost as big a mistake as coming here in the first place."

"Ha-ha," Herring said, and playfully punched Douglas in the shoulder. "Let's just get this over with, okay?"

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter and Henry reached the edge of town at eight o'clock sharp, about the time Herring and Douglas had reached the police station. Walter pulled the car to a stop just next to the underpass that would take them into town--or would, had it not been blocked.

"What do you make of it?" Henry asked, perplexed but not really surprised. "It's kind of suspicious."

Walter shrugged. "No clue. Seems like somebody really doesn't want anyone coming in this way, though."

The short tunnel beneath the overpass had been completely filled up with complicated scaffold work, as though someone had been in the process of building some kind of structure there. In and out of the structure sat large blue barrels the size of industrial waste baskets, the kind often seen at construction sites next to the port-o-johns.

"Well, there's another way in," Walter continued. "We can scale the overpass, or we can follow it until it levels off and then we can climb up and take the highway into town."

"Does the highway even go directly through town?" Henry asked. "It seems a bit out of the way."

"Well, it doesn't go _directly _through town," Walter admitted, "but there are a couple of different exits that branch off, all of which take you straight into town. I think...yeah, the closest one would take us into the shopping district. We'd come out right on Koontz Street."

Henry shook his head. "That would take way too long. It'll be getting dark soon. Isn't there a quicker way?"

But Walter hadn't heard him; he opened the door, got out of the car, and walked across the street. The blanket of fog that had followed them from the first exit back on the highway out of Pleasant River was now thick enough so that Henry could barely make out Walter's form on the other side of the road. That made him nervous, so he got out and followed Walter.

"What's up?" Henry asked when he caught up with Walter. "What are you looking at?"

"Police car," Walter said, approaching the downed vehicle and working the door. It fell off without hesitation. "It's beat to hell."

"What's it doing here?" Henry wondered aloud. "Looks like it's been here awhile, anyway."

A gleam crossed Walter's eye, and he reached in through the opening on the driver's side, where the door had come off. His hand emerged with a black rectangle in tow. Walter tossed the object to Henry, who just barely caught it.

"Walkie-talkie," Walter said. "Try it out. There's another one in here. Must've been partners."

"But where are the officers?" Henry asked, obliging Walter's request. The power button worked. Walter took the other one and tried it. It worked, as well.

"No clue," Walter responded at last. "It's none of our business, anyway. All we need are these. That way, we can keep in touch, in case we get separated."

"Why would we be separated?" Henry wanted to know.

"You tell me." Walter adjusted the frequency on his walkie-talkie until the background noise had been reduced to a minimum, and then he clipped the device onto his belt. "Stick it on your belt so you don't drop it."

Henry obeyed; he had to move his gun towards the front of his pants in order to fit the walkie-talkie onto his belt. "Is there any other, faster way into town?"

"Not that I know of," Walter said. "I mean, we could always try to make our way through that crap." He pointed to the metal scaffolding that blocked the tunnel. "But that could take hours. I wouldn't want to get trapped in a tight spot like that all night. No telling what kind of crap goes on here at night."

Henry shivered. He thought he might know...but somehow, the idea that he might _not _know seemed even worse. He looked at the overpass. It definitely looked too high to scale directly; they could try to go up one side or the other, but the walls on either side of the highway up there looked too high to climb over. The hillside on either side of the overpass was pretty steep, and those walls looked to be at least five or six feet high; it would be difficult to get enough of a grip to climb that high, and a fall from that distance would not be good. Not fatal, but there was certainly the risk of breaking bones.

"Wait," Walter said, snapping his fingers together, "I almost forgot. There _is _one other way."

"What?"

"You need to go through the woods anyway, right? To find this other Walter's grave?"

"Yeah," Henry agreed, fidgeting impatiently. "Why? What did you have in mind?"

"Well, the woods are a nice little walk from here...and if we're going that far, we might as well use a shortcut. See, there's an old path in the woods that leads straight into South Vale." Walter pointed down the road. "A mile or so out that way. I used to hang out around there when my...family came here on vacation."

"Let's go, then," Henry said, approaching the car they'd arrived in.

"We can just go on foot. We won't be able to drive through the woods, anyway--too dense. That, and they put up a lot of fences and stuff a few years ago, to keep people from getting lost. It's pretty linear from Point A to Point B. And the walk will do us good."

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"So, why exactly do you need to see this grave, anyway?" Walter asked. They had reached the edge of the woods, and were making their way down the dirty, scuffed path that would take them to the coal mines. "I mean, I understand that you're here to try to discover the truth about him, but what does seeing his grave have to do with it? I thought you said you already saw his grave, anyway."

"I did," Henry admitted, kicking a stone off of the path with his foot. "But all of that happened while I was in the Other World. Walter's Other World. So I don't really know if what I saw there is what really exists here, in reality. That whole world seemed to be created from his delusions; for all I know, Walter's body--the one that was buried here--is still sleeping six feet under."

"That's a bit confusing," Walter said. "If that's the case, how do you know if _any _of that was real?" And then, after a moment's hesitation: "And how did you meet that stuttery guy? Did he come through one of those holes, too? Or did he get there on foot?"

"Well, that's where it gets messy," Henry said. "I don't know if he came by foot or by hole. I don't know if any of those people used holes to get there. Eileen, she just woke up there."

"What makes you so special, then? You get these holes that take you to and from your pad, and everyone else is just stuck wherever this guy decides to stick them?"

"I have no idea," Henry said. "That's part of why I came here--there are so many unanswered questions about what happened back there...about Walter. I need to know the truth. Not just because it's been bothering me, either."

"Why, then?"

"I just get the feeling that he's not done yet. He, or whatever was behind all of that."

"What do you mean, 'whatever was behind all of that?' Wasn't it all this other Walter's doing?"

"I don't know...I mean, it seemed that way, but there's a couple of things wrong with the whole story."

"Like what?"

"Well, take for instance the fact that...A, Walter killed himself in prison. That's a fact. His body was taken from prison, and that's the body that was buried here in the woods."

"That's not that big of a deal, really. Happens all the time."

"But there's more...see, B is, Walter killed himself in my room. That's also a fact."

"Say _whaaa?"_

"That's what I thought at first. See, Walter killed himself in two places."

"That's not possible."

"But _it happened,_" Henry insisted. "Maybe it's not possible, but that's what happened. Joseph couldn't figure it out before Walter got to him, either. Walter died in two places at once; that's a fact, cold, hard and indisputable."

"Hey, maybe what happened was, this other guy, he died in prison, right? Then he was buried here in the woods? Well, say somebody got his body and carried him back up to your room."

But Henry was already shaking his head. "I thought of that. See, the Superintendent of my apartment saw a man--Walter--going up to Room 302 with a bag that was dripping blood and a bowl."

"Was it a body bag? And how do you know it's the same guy? It could have been somebody else."

"No, I'm certain it was the same man. It wasn't a body bag, either, because Frank would've called the cops. Even he's not that dense; a guy that looks suspiciously like an infamous serial killer and totes bloody body bags with him, that kind of guy gets the cops called on him."

"I see," Walter said, defeated. "So what we've got here is, Walter killed himself in prison. Then he was buried. Then he _somehow_ went up to Room 302 and killed himself, despite the fact that he was already dead?"

"That's about right," Henry said.

"What the hell?" Walter shrugged. "It makes absolutely no sense. No sense at all. That's just not possible. Not unless he was some kind of ghost when he killed himself in your room." He hesitated, thought for a moment, then added: "Wait, maybe he did that ritual thing you talked about--that Holy Assumption thing--maybe that was what let him come back?"

"That's not it, either," Henry discounted. "The ritual involves ten hearts--taken from ten victims--and some kind of white wine in a black goblet made of obsidian. Those were the exact tools I found in that storeroom with his body. He conducted the Ritual of Assumption in that room, _after _he killed himself in prison."

"What the _hell,_ then?" Walter said, stamping his foot on the ground. "That's completely impossible! Even the supernatural is out of the question here, if what you say is true. How can this guy go beyond all of that?"

"Well, I have this theory..." Henry began.

"What is it?"

"I wonder if the guy that killed himself in prison wasn't some sort of a fall guy? Some guy to take the fall for the _real _Walter, to keep the cops off his trail? Or for some other reason? Maybe he wasn't the real Walter."

"That doesn't work, either," Walter said immediately.

"What? Why not?"

"You said the grave was empty. If the body in the grave wasn't the body of the 'real' Walter, why would it have been disturbed? The only reason the body would have been dug up, it seems, would be that the real guy needed it to complete the ritual. But the real guy couldn't have taken the body if he was dead...he would've had to have someone get it for him, and perform the ritual on him. But we know that's not the case, because _he _was the one who went into 302 and killed himself..."

"But maybe somebody only dug up the body to make it _look _that way."

"Dammit...argh, my brain hurts!"

Henry nodded. "Now you know how I feel."

"Well, on the upside, this is starting to make a bit more sense now...if the grave is still undisturbed, after all, then that means it _wasn't _the real Walter. That somebody else died in the prison."

"Now you're getting it," Henry said.

Ignoring the gesture, Walter pointed up ahead. "There's the door to the orphanage. It's closed off from the rest of the woods."

"I know," Henry said. "I've been here before, remember?"

"I wasn't sure if this was turning out to be the same as the place you visited before," Walter said. "But whatever."

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

The ruins of the Wish House orphanage were just as they had been in the 'Other Walter's' dream world; burned to a crisp. Even the doll still sat in the overturned wheelchair next to the foundation.

"There's nothing here," Walter said. "Nothing but bad memories." Even the embers had burned down. He leaned over and picked up a small colored object that had been buried by the debris during the fire. It was a child's toy--a rubber giraffe doll. Stencilled on the side in black ink were the words _R. Walters._

Reading that name struck a painful chord in Walter. He could almost remember who that was...but it was just beyond his grasp. A friend. That was all he needed to know, really. Another helpless victim of the insanity that had taken place here. Walter looked across the burned foundation at Henry, and secretly thanked him for destroying this place, even if Henry himself hadn't been directly responsible.

"Let's go," he said, tossing the toy back onto the ground; it wouldn't be healthy for him to hold onto it. "There's nothing to see here."

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter was silent the rest of the way, and Henry didn't try to pry him out of his silence. Walter seemed to be turning over something in his mind, something very important to him, and Henry figured he'd reveal it if and when he decided it was appropriate.

At last, they came to a pair of large metal doors. They were locked.

"Dammit," Walter exclaimed, kicking one of the doors. "The gravesite's right through here. If we can just get inside, somehow."

Henry took a look at the wall around the doors, and immediately he knew it would be too high to climb. It was much higher than he remembered it being on his last visit. "There's not another way in?"

"The only other way in is go around," Walter said, pacing. "The other side is wide open, but it's on a steep cliff face. You'd have to scale the wall." He shook his head. "The cultists who built this gravesite constructed it with the landscape in mind. They knew that building it here would make it practically inaccessible without the key. They probably had something in mind similar to what happened with your Walter."

"Scale the wall?" Henry said, jiggling the handle. Although 'jiggle' probably wasn't the right word--the doors held fast in their frames, and didn't give at all. "That could take awhile."

"The hinges are on the other side," Walter noticed. "If they were out here, we could just take them off." He folded his arms. "Damn! It's just like back at the overpass. It seems like there'd _have _to be _some _other way, but there just isn't."

"Yeah?" Henry said, turning from the doors. "You're absolutely _sure _there's no other way? No other way at all?"

"Not unless you've got about fifty feet of rope and a grappling hook, or a helicopter, no." He turned to look at Henry, saw the determination in his eyes, and sighed. "Okay, there _is _one other way. Only one, though. Through the mineshaft in these woods. The miners accidentally dug out into the woods once, and they just decided to keep it open in case. My friends and I found out that it also leads through to the side of the hill on which the graveyard sits. You can take a small detour through the mines, and come out just a couple of feet under the graveyard. Not close enough to hit the bodies, of course, but close enough. But I'm not going in those mines. Not for anything."

"Why not?" Henry said, interested in this role-reversal. "There's nothing down there now. You said it was abandoned."

"That doesn't mean there's nothing down there."

Henry flinched. He wondered if that was true or not; they hadn't seen anything strange coming into the woods. Was it too crazy to hope that they wouldn't run into anything down in the mines? If the other Walter still had a hold on things--which, according to Walter's much earlier analogy, seemed quite likely--then the possibility was all too real. He would have a chance to get at Henry himself, without the "good" Walter getting in the way.

"Okay, look," Walter said, approaching the well that stood just off the path next to the door. He put his hands on the edge and peered down, immersing himself in his own mental imagery. "When I was a kid, I heard this urban legend about something that lives in the mines. But it wasn't even _just _an urban legend. It was true. I heard about it from one of the cultists, and I was sure they were trying to scare me. So one day, I went to town hall and the library and did some research on Silent Hill's history. I found this article that had been preserved from 1939."

"What are you saying?" Henry asked, urging him on. "What's this urban legend?"

"See, in 1939, two really weird things happened in this town: One on the lake, and one in the mines. Those incidents really hurt this town's tourism industry, because the locals tried to pass them off as supernatural, and...well, if you're from around the area, you've heard about the local drug racket, and the cult, and the misdeeds they're always up to. So a lot of newcomers thought the cult--or the local drug lords--might be up to something. They got scared and left."

"What happened?"

"Well, the first incident involved a boat. Some tourists went out on the lake during the foggy season, and they never came back ashore. People tried to tell them not to go, that it would be dangerous with all the fog out, but some of the locals--cultists, I suspect--told them it wouldn't be a big deal, because they had that powerful searchlight up in the lighthouse. They said that thing could break through even the thickest of fog. But they were wrong.

"After the fog cleared and the tourists still hadn't returned, the local police--as well as police from several neighboring towns--formed an investigation and searched the whole lake, top to bottom, shore to shore. Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing at all. They were just gone."

"Could it be possible that they were misdirected and went out to sea, instead? Maybe they got lost that way?"

"Maybe, maybe not. You'd think they would have eventually found their way back to land _somewhere,_ but it's also possible that the fog kept them from doing so. After all, the fog around here usually lasts several weeks each year, sometimes months. It's possible that they drifted out to sea and just never found their way back. But in any case, no bodies have ever been found, not to this day. No boat, either."

Henry shrugged. "That's not really that weird. I'm sure it's happened somewhere before."

"Normally, I'd be like you," Walter said, "dismissing supernatural possibilities in favor of logical explanation. But the thing is, weird stuff like that happened around this town _a lot _when I was a kid. This was just the largest-scale weird incident that had ever happened. At least, until about 19 years ago."

"What happened 19 years ago?" Henry asked.

"A lot of people connected with the city--Cops, doctors, a couple of school faculty members, even nurses--just vanished. Their families woke up one morning to find that they were gone."

"You don't think..." Henry said, trailing off. "Maybe...Walter was behind that? He would've still been about sixteen then."

"I don't know. But I really doubt it."

"Why?"

"Those people's bodies were never found; Walter Sullivan's--the _other _guy's, not mine--victims' bodies eventually turned up somewhere. These bodies were either destroyed or hidden. Walter wasn't smart enough--and didn't care enough--to hide his victims' bodies. And besides, what would he have had against an entire town?"

Henry didn't answer, unable to come up with a suitable retort. It was possible that all of the bodies had been dumped into the ocean, but even that seemed unlikely, as _someone_ would probably have seen _something_ and thought it suspicious enough to take note of.

"Everyone at the Wish House was really crazy about the whole deal. The big cheeses wouldn't let us in on it, but I overheard them on more than one occassion that it was supposed to be the Descent of the Holy Mother. They said the 'Chosen Ones' had been sent to Paradise to be judged, and all that crap. They said God would be reborn soon. Everyone at the orphanage was really happy about it, but I was really scared. Especially since those people--those "Chosen Ones" never came back. And one of my best friends, this guy Walters--that was his last name, funny concidence--was really eaten up with that Holy Mother crap. He started to get really scary near the end.

"Everytime I heard someone talk about the Descent, I kept thinking about all those weird incidents--the boats, the mines, the ancient people--and it really freaked me out. The idea that some supernatural entity--some kind of God--that was as narrow, superficial, and _hateful_ as those people could exist was a really scary thought to me. Because I had this crazy notion that people were supposed to _help _each other, not kill each other to get to Paradise."

Henry shook his head, remembering his encounter with Andrew DeSalvo in the prison tower outside of town. Remembering his encounter with Jasper in these very woods. "What happened in the mines, though?"

"Oh, yeah," Walter said. "I forgot the mines. Around the same time as the boat incident--this would have been '39--some kids disappeared from their homes. No signs of a break-in; the windows locked from inside, none of them smashed open, same with the doors. There was a big search party sent out for them, made up of cops and volunteer citizens. They searched everywhere in a five-mile radius. It took them almost a month, but they eventually came to the mines. That's where they found them. Six of them. Burned to a crisp."

"Mine fire?" Henry asked.

"Nope. It was too close to the surface. Not enough methane to ignite, if any at all. They never figured out who--or what--burned the kids. After that incident, they closed the mine 'cause nobody wanted to work there anymore. As time went on, stories started to surface about a monster who lived in the mines. But it was all crap."

"Walter couldn't have done that," Henry mumbled.

"Right," Walter affirmed, "since it took place over thirty years before he was even born. Just goes to show you that this town's been fucked-up since long before that guy rolled around."

Henry nodded a silent "Amen-to-that." "Who was behind it, then? Or what?"

"I have no idea," Walter said.

"Nothing?" Henry asked. "No ideas? No theories?"

"I can't explain it," Walter said. "I mean, I could always make up something about ghosts or demons, but that doesn't make sense. Nor does it feel right at all. I feel like, if we were to come up with a good reason why the town is the way it is, it would _feel _right, like when you're taking a test and you're _sure _you've got the right answer. None of that demon crap jives with me. There's no such things as demons. Or Gods. At least not in the conventional sense."

"What, then? If not demons or Gods?"

"People," he said. "There was the possibility that people were behind it. All of those things, I thought, could be explained by people. Maybe those kids just got up and walked out of their rooms, were kidnapped, and burned, and placed in the mines for those people to find. Maybe some people in a boat hi-jacked the tourist boat, took it out to sea, and sank it. Maybe all those people who disappeared just got up and left town, never to be seen again." He stopped, shaking his head. "But you see, even that doesn't make sense. People are evil--if it were a question of motive, I would easily believe that people are behind it. But it's _not _a question of motive. It's a question of _opportunity. _Opportunity, and excessive coincidence." He looked Henry in the eye. "Those kids _didn't _just get up and walk out of their rooms, and they _weren't _kidnapped and carried off like that. It doesn't happen that way."

"It could have," Henry offered. "Stranger things have happened.

"How did they lock their doors from the inside?"

Henry thought about it, and came up blank.

"See? It's like your deal with dead Walter--no matter which angle you look at it from, it doesn't make sense. It's impossible. But it happened."

"What's your point?" Henry finally said.

"My point is, I believe that sometimes, the impossible happens. We know it exists; if we can fathom it, it must exist somewhere, even if only in our minds. Right? So my idea is, every now and then, impossible things...they just _happen._ No explanation. No reason. No justification. No discrimination. They just happen."

"I don't know about that," Henry said. He didn't like the idea that _anything _he could possibly imagine could exist. "That still doesn't make any sense. What would cause something like that to happen?"  
"That's just it," Walter said. "The infinite. Something we can't understand. Something beyond our ability to comprehend."

"But, by your own logic, wouldn't that mean it couldn't exist? If we can't fathom it?" Henry slowed down his walking pace, to compensate for how hard his brain was working. "I mean, if the reason the impossible occurs is because we can _fathom _that it occurs, then whatever causes it must be something we can fathom. Which is nothing, according to your explanation. Which negates the whole thing. It's a cycle."

"Not true," Walter said. "We can fathom it, so it can exist. But we don't have to fathom it _in order _for it to exist. One must have the other, but the other can function freely. You see?"

"Not really," Henry said, although he thought he might. Even so, he felt he needed further clarification.

"Look at it this way: The infinite--what some of us call 'God'--does things we can't understand. He, or she, or it, does those things in order to bring about things we _can _understand. Hence the universe. We understand _that _the universe exists, _how _it exists, but we do not understand _why _it exists, or how it _came _toexist."

Henry felt like his eyes were going to roll into the back of his skull and then melt. Yet, he thought he might be coming to understand what Walter was saying. "You're saying that the impossible can happen, since we can _imagine _it happening, but that we can't understand _how _it happens, even if we can try and imagine _why_ it happens or what is causing it. Am I right?"

Walter made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. "A-okay," he said.

"That's a paradox, then. If we can imagine how it occurs, then can we not comprehend this 'infinite?' Aren't we comprehending it just by imagining it?"

"Nope. Because we can _imagine _it that way, but it's not the way it happened. We can theorize, and think, and deduce, but we'll never be able to deduce what _happened._ Those kids were not in their rooms. The doors and windows were locked from the inside. That is a fact. Another fact is that it was impossible. These facts cannot co-exist, since by their very nature they contradict one another, and yet they do. End of story. The impossible has occurred."

Henry blinked several times, thrown by the impact of what Walter had said. It was really just a roundabout way of saying that the universe was impossible to understand fully. Why couldn't he have just said that?

"Confusing, isn't it?" Walter said, taking Henry's shoulder. "Welcome to my life."

Henry shook his head. "We digressed, though...what does any of this have to do with why taking the mineshaft is a bad idea? Besides the ever-present possibility that something impossible will happen while we're down there?"

"You just don't get it, do you?" Walter asked. "We're in Silent Hill now. All bets are off. Things will happen if we let them. By standing here talking about this, we've opened up all sorts of possibilities for things to happen to us--me, especially. _Anything _can happen to us now. Anything that your--or my--feeble human imagination can come up with.

"_Anything._"

Henry shivered. "So, what do you propose we do about getting into the graveyard?"

"Well, the options are as follows: We can go back to Pleasant River and get some rock-climbing gear, and we can come back and try to reach the grave from the cliffside. If Pleasant River is off-limits, we'll have to drive to Bangor, and that'll be at least an hour, probably more. Another idea would be to use rock-climbing tools to scale this brick wall, here, but that might be even harder. Or we can go through the mine shaft."

"All this," Henry said, sighing, "just because this door is locked?"

"Yep," Walter said, throwing his hands up in the air.

"That's not good," Henry said.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Walter said, exhasperated. "Look, it's the wall or the mines. If you're desparate enough, you can go through the mineshaft. But I'm not going in there. You'd probably be better off coming into town with me, and trying to find something to break down this door with."

"That'll take too long," Henry said. "Listen, what this boils down to is that you're scared to go down there. I'll just go through the mineshaft, come out on the other side, unlock the door, and let you in."

"If the door's rusted shut," Walter said, "you'll have to go back through the mine."

"Fine by me," Henry said.

"You'd be right to be scared, Henry," Walter insisted.

"Why?" he retorted. "So I can give this town something to use against me?"

To that, Walter could say nothing.

"So, where's this mineshaft? I'm guessing it's somewhere nearby."

Walter sighed. "If you're that bent on going that way, I'll show you where it is. But by God, I'm not going to take responsibility for whatever happens to you while you're down there."

"I'll be fine," Henry said. "Don't worry about me."

"I won't," Walter said coldly.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"That's it?" Henry asked, looking at the shaky board structure that covered the hole in the wall.

"That's it," Walter said. "It's shaky, so we can probably break it down with our feet."

They did so without hesitation.

"Hey, check," Walter said. "Nifty."

Henry looked towards Walter and saw that he was holding a miner's hat, the kind with a built-in flashlight. "Does it work?"

Walter shrugged. "I don't know." He twisted the light, and it flashed on and then off again. He turned it again, this time slower, and the light stayed on. "It looks like it's still pretty new. You should be able to use this."

Henry slipped it on. It fit, but loosely. He hoped he wouldn't drop it once he got down in there. All it would take was an abrupt turn or a single rough trip. "Where'd you find it?"

"Hanging on that hook, right there." Walter pointed just inside the entrance, where a wooden beam had been inlaid into the stone wall. On it was an empty birdcage and another hat, this one without a light. "Smells funky in there. You might want to try to breath through your shirt."

"Nah, I think I'll be better off this way," Henry said. His attempt at humor was weak, and didn't have the desired effect at all. Walter appeared less entertained than ever.

"Hey, Henry," Walter said.

"Yeah?" He paused at the mouth of the hole.

"Be careful in there."

"I will." Henry stepped down into the hole, which was awkward in shape and size, deteriorated from decades of abandon; it was more of a jagged oval, if any coherent shape, than a rectangle, the conventional shape for a mine entrance, and the tunnel dropped down a couple of feet before angling straight out, but in spite of all this Henry was able to slide down into it without much trouble.

"Alright," Henry said, "I'm in. Now you can go wait for me."

Walter stood there for a moment longer, staring down at Henry, before he finally answered. "Yeah," he said. "I'll do that. But if you're not back up here in less than an hour, I'll assume you're dead--or worse--and I'm going to town without you."

Henry smiled and flipped Walter a sarcastic thumbs-up, then turned down into the tunnel. Walter stood at the mouth of the cave for almost a full minute, watching, until Henry was no longer visible.

Walter was filled with the uneasy premonition that this was going to be the last time he ever saw Henry again. Trying vainly to shake that feeling off, he returned to the well, where he waited.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Henry looked around the wide passage, marvelling at the state of the structure. The beams that had been put in place to hold the walls up had been left intact even after the mine had been closed--which was a good sign, at least for now--so there didn't seem to be any immediate danger of a cave-in. Up ahead, he could see a branch in the path. One branch turned straight east, the other one at about a 45-degree angle north-west. He stopped here and closed his eyes, trying to form a mental bird's-eye-view of the landscape above ground so he could determine in which direction the graveyard would lie. He determined that the path to the left--the north-west path--was the correct one.

He turned down the path, having already mostly forgotten about Walter's story. It was probably better that Walter hadn't come down here, anyway--the path was starting to get narrow, and he doubted like hell that Walter would have been able to see two feet in front of him, even with the light, because the tunnel was so narrow here that Henry's body would have blocked most of the light from Walter's view. That would likely have caused more trouble than it would have saved, although Henry would have been less stressed to have Walter down here with him; Walter's threat to leave without him if he did not arrive in the desired time-frame had set him off ease.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter leaned against the well, staring intently at the metal double-doors. He'd thought about ramming them, and then decided that the only thing to break down if he tried that would be his shoulder. He'd also thought about trying to climb the wall, but it was solid brick, and there were no good footholds. At one point, he got bored and decided to circle the brick structure that contained the graveyard. The other side was open to the air--the brick wall didn't go all the way around the graveyard--but there was a steep drop, probably several hundred feet, all the way down to Toluca Lake that set in as soon as he started around the side. Yeah, it was gonna be hell to get in there, even through the mines. He hoped to God that Henry wouldn't get himself lost down there. It wasn't a long route, but it was probably cramped and worn from years of disuse. He hoped that the old road he and his friends had used to sneak into the graveyard was still there. If it wasn't, Henry might be turned around in there somewhere.

And that would not be good.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

After about twenty minutes of spelunking, Henry came to a small cave-in. The tunnel wasn't completely blocked off, but it was going to be a tight fit. He hoped he wouldn't encounter much resistance in there, or else he might get stuck. He was already feeling sort of claustrophobic at the mere _thought _of getting stuck, but not quite enough to deter him. He squeezed into the narrow gap and wriggled through to the other side of the cave-in. He didn't get stuck, but he did have some problems at the halfway point where he thought he might be in trouble.

He made it to the other side and dropped onto cold, hard rock. Climbing to his feet, he noticed that the walls in this part of the cave were more dense--more rock and less soil--and also more moist than the ground back by the door. He was getting deeper.

_Thump._

Far off, either behind or ahead of him, a faint but powerful noise. Henry jumped, and his heart began to race immediately.

_Don't start getting all crazy on me now,_ Henry told himself. _I need you to stay cool._ _It was probably just another small cave-in. Let's just hope it doesn't cave in right here._

Real good job at keeping yourself cool, dumbass.

He shook his head and gently patted his cheeks, trying to focus, and then he continued down the path. There were light fixtures up ahead, some of which were dim and others of which were flickering. None of them seemed to be operating at full power, but Henry was thankful that they were receiving any power at all. It seemed like a miracle that power was even still being supplied to this place, considering that the mine had been shut down almost twenty years ago. He turned his own light off, to save power, and continued down the passage. Quite a ways ahead, he thought he could see another branch in the path. This one went three or four different ways. Again, he conjured a mental image of the scenery above ground, and if his senses were correct, then he should still head north-northwest a bit longer. Soon he would need to turn at a sharper western angle, so he decided that he should probably take the far west branch.

When he finally reached the hub of tunnels, though, he realized that the western branch was completely obstructed by a cave-in. It would be impossible to get through there, and stupid to try. He would have to settle for the next branch, the northwestern one.

Even that branch turned out to be no good, though; about seventy feet in, another cave-in blocked the way. Starting to get a little bit nervous, he turned back and tried the next branch over. This one was going straight north. It went straight ahead unobstructed, but most of the lights near the end of this tunnel were either dim or completely blacked out. He had to turn his light back on.

_Thump._

There was that sound again.

Henry's heart started racing again, but more out of surprise than fear.

_Just another cave-in,_ he told himself, as though the thought should relax him somehow. _Nowhere near, or else you would have felt it, too._

He pressed onward, trying to slow his speeding heart. He tried to think of funny things to relax himself, and he finally settled on a line from an old Simpsons cartoon. Homer Simpson had been sitting at the bar in this particular cartoon, and for some reason had been driven to make the proclamation, _Un-sexy thoughts, Un-sexy thoughts, _and a thought-bubble had appeared over his head showing a hairy fat man in a bikini. Recalling the night he'd seen this cartoon on TV made him chuckle to himself. When he heard it out loud, it made him feel a little bit better.

Then he came to a predicament; at the end of this path, the route branched again, but this time in two opposite directions: west and east. He took the west path, since he was long overdue for a west turn.

All at once, it occurred to him that he had no idea what kind of opening he was looking for--a crack in the ceiling, a hole in the side of the wall--and he felt his heart speed up again. What if he had already passed the graveyard? He would have to backtrack, and that would mean the risk of losing his sense of direction, and if he did that, he could be wandering around down here forever. That thought carried no particular appeal to him.

_THump._

That damn sound! Where was it coming from? And what was it? He found himself hoping that it was another cave-in, somewhere else in the mine.

Whatever the case, he realized that he was not really afraid; he was just suffering from a mild bout of claustrophobia. Such was easy to induce when one dwelled on thoughts of cave-ins and being trapped and losing one's sense of direction. All he had to do was focus, and everything would turn out fine.

"Just focus," he mumbled out loud. When he came to another intersection--this one a west-north junction--he opted to continue west.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter stood leaning on the well, his mouth dry and his face numb. He kept picturing Henry trapped down there somewhere, right near the entrance, trapped but out of range of help. Walter wondered if he would be able to hear Henry's cries, were he to go back to the entrance of the mine. He fought the urge and instead forced himself to think of happy things: Rabbits, butterflies, and candy-canes. The concept made him laugh out loud, effectively dispelling much of his tension. A minute later, the moisture level in his mouth had returned to normal, and his face had regained some of its feeling.

In the distance, a wild dog's howl echoed briefly.

"Are there wild dogs in Maine?" Walter asked himself out loud, not really thinking about it. He was just glad to have something to think about besides the possibility that Henry was lying down there somewhere, possibly trapped by a sudden cave-in or maybe just lost. Moments later, the dog's howl was answered by another dog's howl. The two dogs' cries echoed together, creating a chilly vibration in the evening air.

_Hurry your ass up, Henry,_ Walter thought. _Don't give me a reason to freak out._

He was already starting to regret telling Henry that he'd leave without him.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Henry took a left turn, and then a right turn. The passages were getting narrower again, and turns more frequent. He was trying desparately to keep the mental image of the above-ground landscape in his mind, even though it was only an estimate and not even a really accurate measure anymore, but it was becoming increasingly harder to focus. The air was heavier down here, and as a result he was starting to have trouble breathing. He wondered if he was getting close to a methane pocket or something of the like. If so, he wasn't going to last very long. There was no ventillation down here, so he was probably getting breaths full of concentrated methane gas, if in fact he had stumbled onto a pocket.

Up ahead, he saw light. He wondered if it was the exit. As he got closer, he saw that it wasn't--it was only a light fixture. Well, at least he was still in the area where the miners had worked, and not any deeper--because the angle of the cave's floor itself was slightly displaced from standard ground level, it was impossible to tell if he was going any deeper or rising any higher. He continued straight ahead for several hundred feet, until he finally thought he saw another branch up ahead. When he got there, though, he realized that it was not a branch but a drop. The path widened out a bit, and then took a steep plunge straight down into the earth. If he had tried to descend the hole, he would likely have broken his neck; the bottom could not be seen from right here, as the flashlight's beam could not reach the bottom.

Turning the flashlight up, he could see that the path also rose upward, and a narrow spike of light stuck out from in between the rocks far up on the ceiling of the cavern. It looked to rise several hundred feet up, and the opening at the top didn't look big enough to climb through, anyway. Even if it had been worth the risk of climbing up that drop--which it wasn't--he didn't think he would have been able to bring himself to try and climb it. The footholds were few and far between, and the drop below was enough to motivate him to return to the maze behind him.

_THUmp._

There was that sound again. It sounded like it had come from down below, in the hole. Henry peered over the edge, to see if he could see anything suspicious. Again, he was met with disappointment, as his beam didn't reveal anything but rocks and blackness.

Turning back, he took the other path, the one he hadn't taken earlier--at least, he was pretty sure.

_Don't start with me now,_ Henry thought, his heart racing with uncertainty. The seed of doubt had been planted; he didn't want to feed it any more negative thoughts, lest it grow into panic and then into hysteria. He had to stay calm; that was the only way he was ever going to get out of here.

He stopped, forced himself to close his eyes and take three deep breaths, counting slowly to ten in between each breath. When he opened his eyes, his heart had slowed considerably, and he was no longer rushed with adrenaline. He forced himself to walk, instead of jog, as he had been doing, to keep his nerves calm.

_Calm, that's what I need. Just tranquil calm and peace--_

_THUMp._

"Dammit!" Henry cursed out loud in a half-whisper. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and began to thud its insane rhythm once again. He was getting frustrated, nervous, and afraid all at once, slowly but surely; he wished like hell that he knew what was making that noise. That would cease this sense of urgency running through every vein in his body, begging him, _pleading _with him to hurry the hell up and get out of here. He thought it was probably just the memory of Walter's story that was making him feel this way; he wondered if that thump would have perturbed him in the same way it was doing now, had he not heard Walter's story.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter had begun to drum his fingers on the edge of the well, nervously anticipating the worst thing of all--silence.

That was the bitch of the whole thing--if something _did _happen to Henry, Walter might never know. He might be standing here for hours, maybe even days, and Henry may or may not be able to contact him--

_Contact._ That was it! He still had the walkie-talkie he'd taken from the police cruiser! He'd forgotten all about that. He flipped it out and turned it on, then called Henry's frequency.

The device emitted a loud, shrill ringing sound for about three seconds. Walter waited ten more seconds, and when he got no response, he pressed the call button again.

_Riing-riiing-riiing._

No response.

A picture had already begun to form in Walter's mind of Henry, lying somewhere under countless rocks, buried in some cave-in, and Walter had to bite his lip to make the image disappear.

Somewhere in the night, the dog's howl echoed, louder than before.

Walter shivered.

"Hurry the hell up, you bastard."

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Clink-clank._

Okay, what the hell was that?  
Henry turned behind him. That sounded like the direction from which it had come. But what was the sound? It wasn't like the thumps from earlier. In fact, it had sounded more like an object being dragged, perhaps a chain or something.

Suddenly, the walkie-talkie on his waist emitted a shrill whining noise, and Henry had to fight to stifle a surprised scream. He groped for the switch to answer the call, finally succeeded in plucking the device off of his belt, and pressed down on the 'speak' button. "Hello? Walter?"

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Static noise issued from the walkie-talkie. Walter turned the volume down until the emission ceased, and then he tried Henry one more time. He held down the speak button. "Henry? Can you hear me? Listen, I'm gettin' the creeps out here. Answer me, man! Are you okay? You're freakin' me out, here!"

No response. Then, a burst of static.

But wait...that wasn't all static. No, there was something else in there. Some other sound. It sounded like...well, almost like words. Walter couldn't understand them, but it seemed that the walkie-talkie's reception had suffered because of the ground in between his and Henry's. He should have guessed. He placed the useless thing back on his belt, making sure to clip it tight. It wasn't working now, but it might come in handy later.

Just then, a strange noise caught Walter's attention: _Clink-clank._ It sounded like a loose hunk of metal being dragged down a staircase. It was a weird sound, not unusual but out of place here in nature. And the strangest thing of all?

It seemed to be coming from _underneath._

Walter pivoted and glanced down the well.

Two small red dots peered up at him.

Walter's heart skipped a beat. He felt a warm pain rise in his chest for a split-second and then subside.

Then, a form began to manifest around the dots. A face? No, a purple mass.

"What the...hell?" Walter asked, backing away slightly but unable to take his eyes off of this...this _thing _he was seeing. Pardon the cliche--he couldn't believe his eyes.

The thing at the bottom of the well was not glowing, but the color purple--_bright _purple--was clearly visible. Soon, a coherent shape was visible...but maybe 'coherent' wasn't the right word; it was like nothing he had ever seen before. It looked like it could be a horse, a rabbit, a man, or some combination of the three. It had fangs--incisors--or at least it looked like it did for a second, and then it had long ears--or did it?--and then it had big, red, round eyes, and then it had a long nose. It had all of these features, but none of them at the same time. It wasn't really _shifting_, per se, but rather, it seemed more like one of the optical illusions in those puzzle books that most libraries carried--it reminded Walter of one particular image where an elephant appeared to have four normal legs, but if you tried to follow the lines, you got confused because the feet were in the wrong place. It was something that was coherent and sensible, so long as you were only looking at part of it. If you tried to view the thing as a whole, however, it became a mass of shifting, jarbled shapes. And all the while, it was _smiling._

Without warning it spat, and flung something up at him. It hit Walter in the face, and he was immediately seized with disgusted panic. He screamed shrilly, clawing at his face, trying to take the thing off of it. He finally succeeded in pulling it off and tossing it to the ground. Looking down at it, he saw that it was a fat red centipede, at least an inch wide and several feet long, with millions of scurrying, prickling legs. It quickly rose to its feet and hissed at him.

Walter voiced a cry of disgust at the hideous insect, and promptly squashed it with his foot. The bug exploded in a fury of red and yellow and green, and was no more. Walter raced back to the edge of the well and looked back in--a move that he acknowledged as stupid, but was simply too dumbstruck to reconsider--and saw the purple shape simply fade into nothing. One minute it appeared to be a solid mass, and then it became transparent and was gone.

Walter blinked his eyes three times, very quickly, to make sure he was seeing okay. When he was convinced that what he was seeing was real--that the thing was indeed gone--he turned, not expecting to be able to see the disgusting red centipede, lying on the ground in a colorful mess. Some of the legs were still twitching. Walter thought about squashing them completely, out of sheer disgust, but decided against it. The thing was big enough to make a mess of his shoes. This was a decision based not on fashion but on the fact that he thought he would vomit if he felt the fat body of that hideous thing on the bottom of his shoe again. It was like killing a cockroach and then picking it up with a tissue, the feeling of the dead roach in the napkin like a big nasty booger--and then feeling the roach twitch with life.

Walter shuddered, then gripped his stomach, keeled over and vomited onto the grass.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Clink-clank, clink-clank._

The sound was much louder now. Much closer. And Henry could barely see ahead of him. He almost missed the next right turn when he came to it, but he noticed it and took it. The tunnel hooked sharply to the left and then curved slightly downward. Not good; he needed to go up, not down, he was pretty sure. Another thing he was pretty sure of was that he was being followed.

By what?

He already knew it wasn't a matter of "who" but "what;" no person would be down here, no person would be carrying a large metal object down here, or dragging it behind him or her, or doing whatever was causing that noise.

Henry kept going down, deeper into the bowels of the earth, farther away from a chance to escape to the surface. It was no longer possible to tell which direction the sound was coming from, only that it was getting louder.

Suddenly, his light reflected off of something up ahead. Something shiny. He proceeded forward, trying to adjust his eyes to see what it was. He refused to allow himself to run, because he knew that if he ran he would panic, and he needed to stay calm more than anything else in the world right now. He took slow, deep breaths, keeping time with his footsteps and counting to ten once for each breath. He felt his nerves try to relax, but then his eyes realized the bizarre shimmering thing for what it was.

It was a person. A person wearing all white.

But that couldn't be; there couldn't be anybody down here.

The person seemed to be standing still, but he or she was very far ahead; it was impossible to tell from here. Henry's blood ran cold at the sight--it was just so _unusual_; not even really creepy, just odd. He directed his flashlight straight ahead, as best he could, and saw that the person seemed to be wearing some kind of metal, perhaps a necklace, as the light reflected back at Henry.

"Hello?" he called down the tunnel, and got exactly what he expected for a response: Nothing.

He took a few steps ahead, lowering his head and therefore his flashlight on the offchance that it actually _was _a real, normal person, in that he didn't want to shine it directly in his or her face.

The person took another step...and another...and another...very slow, staggering steps. If it was a person, he or she was either badly hurt or heavily intoxicated. Somehow, Henry doubted both scenarios.

"Hello? Are you a person?" he heard himself ask. He drifted towards the edge of consciousness, and realized at the last possible second that he was about to pass out from sheer exasperation. He bit his lip--_hard_--and brought himself back to reality. When he looked up again, he saw that the 'person' was much closer...and also, he noticed with a dawning expression of terror, it wasn't a person at all. It was a thing that _looked _sort of like a person, yes, but it wasn't a person.

It was a humanoid shape, approximately seven feet tall and perhaps five feet wide. It had the build of a stocky bodybuilder, perhaps a heavyweight champion, but the problem with it was that it was covered in shimmering metal from head to toe. Corrosion had begun to taint the edges and joints, turning them a dull brown color. It was so wide and tall and awkward that it blocked the entire passageway, with almost no room to spare save for that necessary for movement.

_Oh, hell, no,_ Henry thought. _God, please no, not now!_

The thing was coming towards him. It lumbered forward with great effort--each step seemed like a triumph for the big thing--but with relentless determination. It stopped about fifty feet away from Henry, and its head lifted up off of its shoulders--not much, just an inch or so--and spun in a 360-degree angle.

Henry didn't waste time. He turned and ran, back around the corner. He took a right at the intersection, going ahead. He had no time to stop and deliberate; he had to try to keep a constant mental picture of the landmarks above ground for reference, even though he had mostly lost track of his location--he refused to give up completely as long as he thought he had the slightest idea where he was going--and, according to his math, he needed to take a left the next chance he got. Which he did; the next "intersection" offered him the opportunity.

Henry had broken into a full run, and had been going for several minutes before he heard himself chanting, "Please, please," under his breath. He was on the brink of hysteria; the thing back there was coming, albeit slowly, but just that knowledge--coupled with the knowledge that he might need to turn back, should he encounter a dead end--caused him extensive discomfort.

His heart hammering in his chest, he collided full-force with a chunk of stone. A dead end.

"No, no, no!" Henry muttered, a hopeless denial of the reality that stood before him. "No!" He pounded the rock wall with his fist, as though doing so would cause it to part and grant him passage.

Eventually, his fist sank into a crevice in the wall. Startled, he jerked his hand back out, and with it he took a chunk of stone the size of a golf ball. It seemed that this portion of the wall was mostly soil; he might be able to dig through and escape from the thing that was following him, but only if he hurried; it was going to be a tight fit even if he _did _manage to clear enough earth. He started digging with his fists, refusing to stop even when he glanced behind him to see if the thing had rounded the last corner yet.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter's stomach churned with each distant howl that sounded; the dogs were getting closer. He didn't know why he should be afraid of them--they were just wild dogs, after all, and they would probably leave him alone if they came close for some reason, but all the same, he was uneasy. He kept thinking about the dog-monster that the other Walter had shown him in that other world--the dog-monster with the split head and the serrated, forked tongue.

He heard a howl that sounded close enough to be just over the horizon, and his blood was chilled. There was something _wrong _with that howl, something much more menacing, more primal and furious than that of any sane animal. It was a _mean _sound, the sound of an animal bent on feeding not to satisfy its own physical hunger but just to inflict pain on something else. It was an _evil _howl.

_Hurry up, man!_ he thought to himself. This had become a sort of chant for him. He wiped his chin on his shirt and peered back down the well, taking care not to stare directly down into it, should the odd purple thing be waiting for him.

_Please, hurry up!_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Henry had dug about five and a half feet into the wall--just enough space to squeeze most of his body into--when he heard the thing coming again. _Clink-clank, clink-clank._ He tossed a look over his shoulder just in time to see the thing rounding the corner, less than a hundred feet away.

Henry gasped with terror, trying not to faint, obeying the instinct to flee, flee, flee, and shoved himself into the hole he had made. He began frantically scraping at the soil in front of him, miming a swimming motion, until he felt his hands brush free space on the other side of the wall. He pulled one hand out, then the other, and then, gripping the sides of the wall from outside, pulled the rest of his body through the opening. He fell flat onto the ground on the other side with a _thud_, kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt.

Just as he rose to his feet, thinking that he might be able to catch his breath, he heard a very loud noise from behind him, and before he had a chance to turn and see what it was, his back, neck and shoudlers were pelted with large, hard rocks. He stumbled, almost fell, but managed to keep his balance and start running again. He was dazed but not really hurt.

When he looked behind him, he saw that the metal-headed thing had _obliterated _the wall, blasted it into pieces like it had been made of styrofoam instead of granite. That made him run that much faster; he didn't care to see what kind of damage old metalhead could do to human flesh.

He ran ahead for another hundred yards or so, until the path angled sharply up and to the left. He took the curve without grace, barking his shin on a stone jutting out of the right-hand wall, and he had to turn again when the path shifted in a 90-degree curve. The tunnel was straight from there on out.

And Henry could see light. Natural light, not that of a light fixture. Outside!

He ran, pushing himself to the limit. He didn't spare a look back because he was afraid he might actually see Metalhead back there. He booked towards the exit, thanking God for finally cutting him a break.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter stood with his back to the metal doors; he had nowhere to go, and those things were coming. And there were a _lot _of them. The number of howls had multiplied greatly since they had first begun; in the beginning, there had only been one or two. Now, there were in excess of ten. An inhuman, cruel declaration of pain to come echoed throughout the woods, and that was when Walter saw the first of them.

He couldn't tell what it looked like from here; all he could see was the sillouhette of a quadruped animal with a slightly elongated neck. All the same, he thought he could feel a malicious tension floating down from that shape.

Walter made an uneasy sound. He had nowhere to run; the car was still a mile and a half away, parked just outside of town on the highway. He could only wait, and hope they didn't see him, should they decide to come this way.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Henry reached the opening, threw his hand out...and stuck fast between the two rocks that flanked the exit. The hand that had passed through ahead of him flailed helplessly in the air, grasping for purchase and finding none. He tried to use his other hand to push himself out from within, but he was stuck fast. He wasn't going anywhere.

Inside the cave, he heard Metalhead stomping ever-so-patiently after him, the cold, surefooted determination in each step driving an icicle of panic deep into Henry's chest. He felt like he was going to have a heart attack. He was so _close _to freedom!

As a last resort, he dug his feet into the ground and pushed, trying to squeeze himself between the rocks and out of the hole. But a jutting rock dug painfully into the side of his neck, causing him to cry out, so he stopped. He began helplessly flailing, making loud, panicked noises and screaming for help, even though he knew Walter wasn't going to be able to help him.

He could still hear Metalhead coming.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"_Help me! Please, help me!"_

Walter froze. That voice..."Henry?"

At the sound of his voice, the sillouhette of the dog turned towards him. It was just over the horizon--still not close enough to identify--but Walter had a bad feeling about it, all the same. He was sure it was going to charge him.

So it surprised him that much more when the animal turned and disappeared into the woods, far off to the west.

"Jesus," Walter said, and swallowed. "I have _got _to grow the hell up."

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Henry heard Metalhead closing in on him ever-so-slowly from behind, and decided that if he was going to die, he was going to go down fighting. He pulled the gun from his waistband and turned behind him to fire...and then saw his way out.

He turned the pistol towards the rock that held him in place, and pulled the trigger.

_Click._

"What?" Henry asked, broken. The gun was jammed. He couldn't fuss with it because he only had one free hand; the other one was outside of the hole, and he couldn't reach the gun with it. "No, no!" It was impossible for him to believe that he was going to be killed by something that moved so slowly, that could be outrun so easily.

Metalhead was very close; within a few feet. Henry could feel the ground shudder with each step the thing took.

Henry closed his eyes, prayed, and pulled the trigger again. This time, a satisfying _BOWM!_ issued from the gun, and a large chunk of loose rock flew past Henry's head. His body fell out of the crevice and onto the dirt floor of the cemetary, and he pivoted just in time to see Metalhead, standing there in all its terrible glory.

"_Henry!"_

Henry jerked his head towards the metal double-doors. He gripped the gun tight in one hand, pointing it at Metalhead.

Metalhead did not move. It only stood inside the mouth of the small cave, looking (_could_ it even look? It had no eyes!) at him. Statue-still.

"What do you want?" Henry asked breathlessly, not lowering the gun. "What are you?"  
The thing watched him.

Nervous, shaky, and afraid, Henry fought the urge to faint and rose to his feet, backing away from the creature. "What do you want?" he repeated.

Still, the thing only watched him. It turned its head as he angled away from it, and its neck sounded off with a shrill creak.

"F-fuck you," Henry stuttered, barely able to speak, trying to play up his courage. He ran towards the metal doors and began to tug on the metal deadbolt that extended across both doors, holding them shut.

It wouldn't budge. It seemed to be rusted in place.

"No, dammit," Henry pleaded. He couldn't go back through the mines, not now. Walter had been right, after all.

"Henry?" Walter's voice said from the other side. It was muffled greatly. "Henry? Are you okay? What's happening?"

Glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see the Metalhead thing and instead seeing only the graveyard, Henry said, "Long story. I can't get the door open. It's bolted shut!"

Walter cursed under his breath. "You might just have to go back through the mineshaft, then," he said.

"Can't," Henry said. He tried to kick the bolt loose, to no avail.

"What happened? Cave-in?"

"Metalhead," Henry mumbled. He pulled up on the deadbolt from underneath, trying to pry it loose from its chambers.

"Whazza?" Walter said.

"Just...just wait, okay?" Henry turned over his shoulder again.

Still nothing.

Henry realized that he wasn't going to feel better until he made sure the thing was gone. If it was still standing at the mouth of that cave, Henry thought he might faint, overwhelmed.

Slowly, the gun in hand, Henry started towards the cave, noting with interest that the last time he had been here, the cave had been replaced by a door with a strange seal on it. The only difference was that the cave faced in the opposite direction of the seal-marked door; that entire end of the graveyard was upraised a bit, as though the miners had accidentally displaced the land while digging.

Henry leveled the gun towards the hill, should the creature suddenly emerge from within. It didn't.

When he reached the mouth of the cave, he saw that it was empty. Metalhead was gone. Henry turned on the light on his helmet and looked down into the hole, afraid to stick his head in too far.

Nothing.

He was gone.

Henry sighed with relief, and returned to the metal doors.

"Walter?" Henry said through the doors. "Walter, can you hear me?"

Shuffling noises. "Henry? Yeah, I can hear you! Whatcha need?"

"I need you to go to town and get something to help me out of here. I can't get the door open. Maybe you can find some rope to climb the wall with, or something."

"What?"  
"Rope," Henry shouted. "Get some rope, or a grappling hook for all I care. I need to get out of here."

"There's gotta be something in there you can use to get that bolt off," Walter said. "It's a long way into town from here. And I'm not cool with leaving you alone out here."

Henry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down one more time. "Just go and get something. I'll be..." But before he could finish his sentence, he got an idea. "Wait, I want to try something first."

"Whatever," Walter said, confused. "Just hurry up, okay?"

Henry lay down on his back and scooted up against the door so that his back was against the ground and his rear end pressed up against the door. He placed his feet on the bottom of the metal deadbolt and kicked hard. Once. Twice. Three times.

"What the _hell?_" Walter shouted from the other side. "Don't ram it, Henry, you'll break your damn neck!"

Each time he kicked with all his might, the bolt slid a little farther out of the chamber. On his sixth try, the bolt came loose and landed on his chest abruptly, knocking the wind out of him. The doors swung open, assisted by the evening wind.

Walter stood before him in awe, then quickly realized that Henry was pinned down and leaned over to help. "Crap, what did you do?" He asked, helping Henry to his feet as the man hacked and coughed. "Told you you'd kill yourself!"

"I'm...fine," Henry said between coughs. He finally started to catch his breath and began to breath slowly and deeply; after a minute or so, his breath adjusted to a normal pace, and he was able to stand up at last. But when he looked at Walter, the man was no longer paying attention to Henry. He was looking over Henry's shoulder with a frustrated look on his face.

"Somehow, that's what I expected," he said, pointing.

Henry followed his finger and saw something drastically different from what he'd expected. He'd figured that he would find Walter Sullivan's grave--that of the serial murder, not of his accomplice--filled with a body, in which case he had planned to dig up the body and make sure it was Walter's. That would have allowed him to continue supporting his conspiracy theory that another person had been in on the case, and that Walter hadn't really died in prison at all.

But here, standing before him, was an empty coffin, with the numbers 11/21 slashed in red ink on the severed lid, which had been cast aside as if the body had climbed out of the grave by itself and thrown the lid there of its own accord.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

It was almost nightfall when Steven's car pulled into the parking lot of the motel across the street from Annie's Bar, in the resort district of Silent Hill.

Steven got out and locked his door, and made sure that Eileen did the same. Then he assisted her into the lobby of the hotel, which was empty except for the inkeeper. He helped Eileen to the couch on one side of the room.

"Excuse me," Steven said cordially, approaching the counter. "Do you have any rooms available?"

The man turned around--a short man, with a crop of wavy brown hair like that of the young pop-stars Steven often saw on TV and in music stores. He wore a brown button-up vest and wide glasses, and his eyes had the shimmer of a man who likes to keep things orderly. "We have one room left," he said in a soft, pleasing voice. "You're just in time, I suppose. It is late."

"How much?" Steven asked, producing his wallet. "And how many beds does it have?"

"Only one, I'm afraid. It's a single. Will that be a problem?"

"Couch?"

"Yes."

"Then no, it won't. How much?"

"Thirty dollars a night," the man said, adjusting his glasses. He looked like a suspect from a 20's detective movie; every movement he made seemed to have an ulterior motive. Not threatening, but he still made Steven uncomfortable. And the way he kept smiling..."That's per person. By the way, shouldn't you probably see a doctor about that?" He added this latter, looking at Eileen with an uncomfortable grin on his face.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just a little accident."

The man shrugged and took Steven's money. "You'll want to sign in." He slid a pen and clipboard across the counter. Steven obliged, then handed the objects back. "Sleep well," the inkeeper added, and gave Steven the key to room #2.

"Thanks," Steven said, and turned to Eileen. "Come on, let's go."

_What a weirdo._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

The room was a single, as they had been told, but there was a small loveseat--hardly a couch, as he had been lead to believe--by the window. Steven took the table out from under the TV and used it as a footstool. Eileen took the bed.

"So, what are your plans?" Steven asked, once they had gotten situated. "I mean, as far as this child goes. You must have some idea where she is."

"Not really," Eileen muttered. "I mean, I know she's here, but I'm not sure where to start looking. Or how. I figured I'd have some help by now."

Steven threw his hands up in the air and pointed to himself, attempting to be humorous. "What am I supposed to be?"

"I meant spiritual help," Eileen said sharply, denying his attempt to lighten the mood. "Or whatever you'd call it. I don't think spirit is quite the right word."

"Your visions?" Steven asked, adjusting the blanket across his waist and legs. It was embroidered with images of baby kittens; a blanket his mother had knitted for him while she'd been in the hospital with cancer and he'd been in college, just before she'd passed on. He always carried it in the trunk with him when he was on the move, in case he had to sleep in the car for some reason.

"Yes, those. I was expecting to have had another one by now." She rolled over so that she was facing him. "I guess I'll just have to start asking around tomorrow."

"But you don't even know her name," Steven said. "How do you expect to find her without even knowing her name?"

"I know what she looks like," Eileen said. "I can describe her and ask if people have seen her. I'm sure that's worked for other people."

"Maybe so, but it's still a longshot," Steven said. "Maybe there's another way. There's a town center here--maybe they have photo ID records, or something?"

"She wouldn't have a driver's license," Eileen insisted. "She's too young to drive."

Steven withdrew his remark, defeated. Even if it was legal for someone between fifteen and seventeen to drive, the chances were slim that this kid had a license--if for no other reason than because Eileen said so. He was coming to the realization that it would probably be better--even _safer_--to take this woman's visions as truth, at least in some respects. Perhaps they would be useful later on, if they came back at all.

"I don't think she actually _lives _anywhere here, either," Eileen added. "Like in a house."

"What do you mean? She's homeless?"

"I don't know. I just don't think she lives _here_. Not in this town. I mean, she's supposed to be here right now, but she doesn't actually live here. So there probably won't be any records of her in the town center. Unless she's in prison somewhere."

"There is a police station we could check out," Steven said. "I could go by tonight, before it gets too dark. It's just a few blocks away."

"No, but I appreciate the offer. I need to go and do this myself. It doesn't matter if you're with me or not, but I need to be there. I'm the only one who knows what she looks like."

"What _does _she look like? White? Black? Asian? Hispanic? What color hair?"

"White kid, blondish hair. In my vision she had on this little red outfit. It's not quite a dress, but it's not really a shirt-pants-thing, either. I think it's some kind of new fashion thing. You know, like those damn tube tops you always see women wearing."

Steven recalled an incident in his recent past that involved an encounter with a man who had worn a tube-top, and thought about bringing it up. He decided not to; Eileen seemed really serious about this, and he wanted her to know that he, too, was serious about it.

"I don't know why, but the outfit seems important, as well. I think she'll be wearing that when we find her."

"That's a plus, but it's still not much to go on. Are you _sure _there's nothing else you remember?"

"Just the clothes, the hair and skin color. And the face. I'd know the face in a crowd, I'm sure of it."

Steven slumped his shoulders, folding his arms. "So, how do you want to do this? Door-to-door? Maybe try a phonebook, or something? Call some people? File a police report, say you're looking for a missing person?"

"I don't want to be that open about it," she said. "Especially not with the police. They're probably looking for me. Even if it's just for questioning, there's a chance that they could mess me up before I finish here. I'd rather keep as low of a profile as possible."

Steven figured it was a good thing that he had signed them into the hotel as Dexter and Barbara Holland. He'd had a hunch that using their real names would not have been a wise idea--a hunch partially derived from her earlier statement that the cops were probably looking for her.

"So how, then?"

"I figured we could just drive around for awhile, and see what we see. You never know. I might have another vision."

"But you might not," Steven said. "I wouldn't count on those visions. If you have one, great, but we'll be better off if we stick primarily to basic reality."

"Even so, I'd like to drive around. We might find her running around somewhere. Kids don't just sit inside all day, you know."

"At least, that was the way it used to be," Steven mumbled.

"You know what I mean. I think it's worth a try, even if all we do is get the lay of the land. Hey...don't you have something to do?"

"What?"

"Here. In Silent Hill. Your friend. When are you going to do that?"

"Oh, that," Steven said with a reluctant sigh. "I suppose I'll have to start on that when I get the chance. It's going to be dirty work, though, and I don't know if I want you involved in that."

"How dirty?"

"It's going to involve me poking my nose around where it doesn't belong. Asking questions that nobody wants asked. Talking to dangerous people. My own sort of research."

"About the cult?"

"That, too. Maybe deeper. Whatever it takes. This is my purpose now, and I won't be able to live with myself from now on if I don't put all of my being into this little project."

This declaration was followed by an ominous silence; the very powers at be seemed to be evaluating the statement.

"God, I'm hungry," Eileen moaned. "You think some place is open this late?"

"It's only a few minutes past eight," Steven said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "So probably."

"Well, no," she amended. "I don't want to go out. I just want a snack."

"Me, too," Steven said, feeling his stomach rumble. It seemed to have awakened at the possibility of food. "I saw a snack machine in the lobby. Want me to grab something for you?"

"If you're going that way," she said. "Would you?"

"I was going to get myself something, as well," he obliged, and got up.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Outside, it had gotten dark. The lights in the lobby were off, and the only thing providing any illumination was a streetlight, poking over the top of the building from the edge of the block, but even that light was dim. Steven had to pause a moment, letting his eyes adjust to this new, oppressive darkness.

The lobby door was still unlocked, so he stepped inside and felt around for the light switch. He found it and flipped it, then stepped forward into the room...only to bark his shin on the coffee table. He cried out, then quickly stifled himself.

The room was still dark.

The light switch must've been broken, then. Either that, or it was one of those programmable dealies, that you could de-activate with a master switch somewhere. That was probably it; the hotel owners wouldn't want the lights from the lobby to intrude on anyone's peaceful sleep.

He felt around the room until his eyes adjusted, and at last he spotted the candy machine. Looking very closely, forcing his eyes to try and see into the darkness, he was able to tell that the only thing in the machine even healthy enough to consider eating was a packet of cookies. It was seventy-five cents.

"Seventy five?" Steven muttered in a half-whisper, under his breath. "That's robbery." But he bought two packets anyway, staying true to the promise he'd made to Eileen. He turned and headed for the door.

Out of curiosity, though, he first glanced over the counter. The door back there was open. He wondered what had happened to the guy at the counter. Probably gone off to bed. But so soon? Steven and Eileen hadn't been in their room five minutes. Unless the guy had been waiting for them to leave, so he could go somewhere...yeah, that actually made sense. Probably waiting for his break, or something. Oh, well. Steven shrugged and headed out the door.

On his way back to the room, he heard something heavy being knocked over, somewhere on the other side of a parking lot, and he felt his heart speed up, even though it only sounded like an animal knocking over something like a garbage can. A few seconds later he heard the high-pitched squeal of an alley cat, and he relaxed a bit. He was still jumpy from the vision the Miriam-thing had sent to him.

He reached Room #2 without further distraction.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"Hey, Eileen!" Steven called into the room, closing the door behind him. "Eileen, I got cookies!"

The bedroom was empty, but the bathroom door was open and the light was on. Figuring that she wasn't doing anything that warranted complete privacy, as the door had been left open, he checked inside.

She wasn't in there, either.

"Eileen?" he asked stupidly, as though she might be hiding under the toilet seat. Strange as he felt doing so, he checked there, as well. Nothing. Really, what had he expected?

He went back into the bedroom and checked under both beds. Not there, either. Where could she have gone?

Opening the door and allowing the black night to seep back in, he called out, "Eileen!" Softly but firmly.

Nothing. No response.

"Oh, come on," he said, taking his coat from the arm of the loveseat and slipping his shoes on. He stepped out into the solid night once more, barely able to see. He made it to his car, where he took the emergency flashlight out of the glovebox. Turning it on, he swept the parking lot with it. Nothing there, either. His was the only car here.

Hadn't that man said one room was available? Who was in the other rooms?

_Easy, _he thought. _They came on foot. Just because you don't have a car doesn't mean you can't sleep in a hotel room._

Even so, the idea that the man might have lied to him stuck in his mind. He knew it probably wasn't the case, but he still felt obligated to try and justify it. What was that about?

"Whatever," he said aloud, feeling cold air rush into his lungs as he inhaled. "Just...whatever." And with that, he started towards the front of the building. He would have made it farther, except that he saw something, just as he was about to round the corner, that caught his eye: A little girl, standing on the sidewalk just in front of the hotel sign, looking in his direction.

Looking _at _him.

"Hey," Steven called to her. "Hey, girl!" He started walking towards her, and she backed away. He stopped, and she stopped. He waved to her. "Hey, kid! Over here! Have you seen a lady go by? She had some bandages on her back?"

The girl just watched him intently, wide-eyed, as though he were some new and interesting creature with which she was previously unfamiliar.

"Please, kid," Steven called, starting towards her again, and this time she broke into a full run. It was when she turned from the light that he noticed what she looked like, in detail.

Short, blonde hair. Little red--no, c_rimson_--outfit. Looked kind of like a short dress, cut off just a few inches above the knees. Black shoes, maybe slippers.

That was the girl they were looking for, Steven had no doubt. She fit Eileen's description exactly. It _had _to be her. But finding her this easily couldn't be a coincidence. Steven couldn't help but feel that there was more to this than he could see. He began chasing her, anyway.

"Wait! Stop! Please, I need your help! My friend is lost, hurt, possibly in deep trouble!" If he started yelling to her about how his friend knew her from her visions, that might just scare the kid even more. So he stuck to his plea for help, instead, which wasn't entirely a lie, anyway.

She turned right and started running down the street, towards the bridge. He couldn't see it from here, but he knew it was there--he'd come into the resort district across that bridge. They'd tried Jack's Inn in South Vale before coming here, but it had been closed down.

Thankfully, as he followed her across the bridge, trying to keep up but failing, he encountered more street lights. They didn't really help much--even at night, the fog was thick, and it blew at him like a vicious, visible wind--but he felt better around light, all the same. Even artificial light.

He started to lose sight of her, just as she turned a corner up ahead. She darted between two buildings, into a wide alley. He continued his pursuit, already sure that he wouldn't be able to catch her but trying to at least get an idea of where she might be holed up. Then, later, he and Eileen could come to her and do whatever needed to be done.

He followed her into the alley and turned right at the end, coming to a small set of tables, chairs and booths, plus a couple of benches. Some kind of park, maybe an outdoor cafe. A half-eaten cheeseburger, still sitting on its sprawled wrapper, lay on the closest of the tables, and Steven noticed with a cry of disgust that it was crawling with maggots. He shook his head and continued pursuing the girl. She was climbing a set of stairs in the distance.

Where was she headed? The boat launch? There was nowhere to go out there; she had to know that. Unless she was planning to circle around him somewhere. He took off after her.

Reaching the top of the steps quickly took a lot of his stamina; he had to slow down for a moment and try to catch his breath, losing precious ground on the kid. After a moment he broke into a run, but then his side cramped up and he had to slow down. He realized that he was nearing the end of his rope; he would probably do better to go back to the hotel now and tell Eileen what he saw tomorrow.

But then he remembered that Eileen was missing, and he got the queer feeling that maybe he should try to follow this kid a little bit longer. It just seemed like too big a coincidence that he had seen the kid _Eileen _was looking for, right after Eileen had disappeared. He sprinted, wasting the last of his energy.

At long last, he came to a downward staircase. He took it, following the sound of the girl's footsteps echoing off of the ground ahead of him. He came to a small alleyway that went between two overhead docks. They were under the boat launch, then. He kept going until he heard sobbing, close by to his right.

He turned in that direction, sure that the sobbing was the frightened sound of the child he was going after. He wished that he could communicate to her in some way--some _convincing_ way--that he meant her no harm; he felt a sharp pain in his heart, listening to that sound and thinking that he was causing it. It was the sob of someone who has had many troubles in her life, and wants nothing from anyone but to be left alone.

Unfortunately, he had to defy that in order to establish contact with her, whoever she was. Maybe the fact that he was a priest would help. After all, priests were generally rapped on for hanging out with little _boys_, not little girls.

_Don't be a dumbass,_ he told himself, following her into the narrow passage. Eventually the passage opened out a bit, and Steven found that he was in some sort of room. It wasn't actually a "room" in the sense that it was closed off from outside, but rather that it was directly beneath the dock and blocked off on two sides by the side of the port.

Flashing his light on the ground before him, Steven saw something that made him very uncomfortable. Red stains. He had a feeling they weren't ketchup.

Shivering, he continued his pursuit. The stains on the ground got bigger and bigger, more pronounced and seemingly more _fresh_, until he finally collided with a large object and went tumbling head-over-heels, landing on his face and voicing an obscenity to shame his religious position.

Rising into a sitting position, he turned to examine the object he had run over. It appeared to be some sort of cart; it had a table on top and one on bottom, and was about the length of a stretcher but with nothing on it.

Nothing but large red stains.

It had wheels, but they were too rusty to turn--one brush of the thumb told him that. The wheel squealed and quickly stopped moving.

"Huh," he said, rubbing his chin where it had hit the hard floor. "That's really weird." Then he remembered the girl, and he turned to see if he could still catch her. Ahead was another dark passage, this one a bit wider than the last; more of a hallway than an alleyway. He continued down this hallway, running but this time being careful to watch where he was going. He almost didn't notice the abrupt ninety-degree turn up ahead, but he saw it coming with seconds to spare and avoided himself a nasty crash. Finally, he reached a wire fence. He tried to open it...and it wouldn't budge. He shone his light onto it.

It was rusted shut. The little girl must've gone over it, then. He did the same, taking pains to avoid the rusty edges on top of the fence--he didn't want to come down with a case of tetanus, on top of all of this.

Just as he climbed down, he heard a sound in the distance that chilled his blood: A long, slow moaning, far off. After a few moments passed, other moans joined the first, and he realized that they were not moans, but _sirens._

He thought of Miriam, back at the church, and felt his heart speed up. He was sure that those sirens meant something. But what? Would he be seeing Miriam soon?

He earnestly hoped not.

Continuing forward, he finally came to the sitting figure of a young woman. She was curled into the fetal position, and sobbing profusely.

"Oh, dear," Steven said, kneeling down next to her. "Listen to me, please. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a priest. My friend is..." he backed away from the figure, surprised and a little unnerved. "Eileen? Is that you?"

She looked up at him, and that was when he saw the dark circles around her eyes. She looked as if she'd been assaulted by someone very powerful. Black bruises littered the front of her body, as well as the tops of her back and arms.

"Good heavens, Eileen! What happened?" Steven attempted to take her hand, but she pulled away. "Please, let me help you! This is horrible! Where did you go?"

She only continued sobbing, shaking her head. "It's too late," she said. "It's too late, we were too late. She's already...already..." she shook her head vehemently and sobbed harder.

Steven felt his grip on reality loosening. Was he the only sane person here? "Eileen, listen, calm down. Tell me what happened." He almost screamed with surprise, though, when he heard a low scratching noise coming from just a little farther down the hall. He was afraid to check what it was, but then he heard a soft, mewling sound, and recognized it for what it was: the alley cat. It must have been the one he'd heard back there in the parking lot. Either it had followed the girl, or she had followed it, or some bizarre coincidence had just occurred.

In any case, _something _bizarre was going on here.

Steven approached the cat, which had gotten caught up in some kind of sheet. It was in a pile of trash on the ground--some sort of primitive nest, which added to the weird feeling Steven already had--rolling around, two paws sticking out from beneath the sheet, scratching and rolling, scared and angry and confused.

"Poor fellow," Steven said, dropping onto his knees. He watched the animal for a second or two, not to watch it suffer or pity it, but to feel compassion for it, then he reached down, took hold of the sheet, and pulled.

The cat contested this action with a long, low, terrible meow, resisting the removal of the sheet. It was very low--almost _too _low--and with that, a red spot appeared in the center of the sheet. Dozens of other red spots joined the first, and they began to spread across the sheet, soaking it. The cat meowed that low, un-feline meow again, and began to tremble.

Blood. It was blood, spreading across the sheet. Steven gasped with shocked horror and backed away, falling onto his rear end.

The cat shook violently, spraying tiny droplets onto the ground beneath it, and something peered out at Steven from beneath the cloth. It looked like a worm, or some kind of tentacle.

"Eileen," Steven whined, crawling back towards her but unable to take his eyes off of the terror before him. "Eileen, give me the gun. Now."

Sobbing. She didn't even act like she'd heard him.

"Eileen!" This time with more force. "Eileen, dammit, give me the gun!"

She ignored him completely. The cat, meanwhile, had begun to approach him. When it got within a few feet of his right ankle, a narrow brownish-red--and very slimy--tentacle shot out and clasped his ankle. It wasn't big enough to overpower him, but it was very uncomfortable. Steven felt his ankle go numb at the thing's touch.

"_Eileen! The gun! Give it to me!"_

Eileen continued to weep, oblivious of Steven's plight.

He finally turned back to her, grabbed the gun from her waistband, and pulled it free. She reached for it, trying to take it back, but Steven held tight to it. He turned and faced the terrible cat-thing and shot it twice. Two bullet holes appeared in the white sheet, and an unidentifiable substance oozed out from beneath--it was black and red, swirled together like a liquid twizzler stick--and the cat-thing moaned that low, horrible moan one last time before dropping to the ground in front of Steven.

The tentacle laxed around his ankle, but he still couldn't feel his foot. He pulled it away from the tentacle and rose to his feet, standing on his numb foot as though it were asleep.

"Eileen, we've got to get out of here, right now," he said, and took her arm. "Let's go."

She wouldn't hear it. "It's too late, Steven! Don't you get it? It's too late! She's already done! It's already taken her!"

Steven slapper her hard across the face. "Woman, I don't care about that girl right now. Right now, all I care about is getting out of here alive. If it's too late for her, that's too bad, but _we're _still alive, and we need to get out of this place, right _now!_" He tugged her again.

But stil she refused. "She's the reason I came here. We were supposed to save her. We were supposed to stop it. But now we can't. What's there to do, then?" She laughed--actually _laughed_--and pounded on her knees. "It was my job. She was like a part of me."

Steven tried shaking her. "You're not _listening _to me, Eileen! We're going to die if we stay here. Didn't you see that cat thing? Did you not see the way it came after me? That wasn't something born of this earth, Eileen! It would have come after you, too!"

In the distance, the sirens had begun to blare again, driving into the center of Steven's head like a cold rail spike. He cringed, trying to maintain himself. He tried to speak, but nothing would come out; his entire body had gone numb. He fell to the cold ground--the cold _metal _ground--with a cry of outraged pain and began to convulse.

In the distance, the sirens tore throughout the town like the ancient cry of some lonely, hungry animal.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Steven sat up, his cry of helpless terror cut off by surprise. He looked around the room, feeling a strong vertigo. Where was he?

The walls were a creamy beige color, and the floor was a clean tile of the same color. He was sitting in a bed, and his ankle had been bandaged. Was he in a hospital?

He climbed to his feet...and cried out when a bolt of intense pain shot through his right leg. He felt around there and discovered that the flesh of his right ankle had become extremely sensitive. He couldn't even touch it without feeling a deep, uncomfortable sensation, like touching his toungue to the edge of a battery, only magnified by a thousand times. It burned a little, but it wasn't really that bad. Not until he tried to put pressure on it.

He noticed that a pair of crutches had been placed next to the foot of the bed. Taking one and sliding it under his right arm, he lifted himself out of the bed, trying very hard to avoid placing any pressure on his right ankle. Limping, he managed to get the door open.

The hallway was long and narrow, the floor tiled white. He saw a sign to his right, hanging from the ceiling, that read _1FL_ and had an arrow pointing to a door. He tried the door, and it opened onto a stairwell. Carefully descending the stairwell, he found himself on the first floor, as promised. He went through the examination room and found himself in the lobby-slash-waiting room. It was completely empty.

"Shouldn't be too surprised," he said out loud. He was intimidated by the vastness of the silence here; he figured that everyone in the hospital must be gone, with it this quiet. Perhaps everyone in the town. There had been nobody on the floor in his room.

So then, how had he gotten here?

Steven opened the front door, almost afraid of what he might (or might not) find, and stepped out into the front yard of the hospital. He carefully descended the front stoop, then turned around and looked at the front of the building. It read

**ALCHEMILLA HOSPITAL**

Steven didn't know a place called Alchemilla. They had passed a Brookhaven Hospital on their way into Silent Hill, but no Alchemilla. Was this even still in Silent Hill?  
"What...the hell?"

END OF CHAPTER 15


	16. Forward To Death

**Chapter 16**

**Forward to Death**

_"You're destined to follow me!"_

_-- Sigma_

_"Maybe so...but I still don't like you!"_

_-- Zero_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"I don't like this, Doug. Not one bit." Herring stood just inside the doorway, his right hand on the butt of his revolver and ready to go at a moment's notice. "I think we should turn back."

"Not without Heather," Douglas said. He stood over the strange object, hands hanging limp at his sides. He felt the same way that Herring did--he felt the same fear--but all the same, his resolve to find Heather was much stronger. Every time he conjured her face in his mind, he remembered that she was not in this situation of her own accord. And if there was one thing he couldn't live with, it was abandoning an innocent friend in her time of need.

"At least get away from that thing," Herring said, more sternly. "There's no telling what kind of disease that thing might have."

Douglas ignored him, kneeling down before the thing. One hand rose to his chin. He shook his head.

Herring finally joined the detective. "You think green coat guy did this?" He glanced around the corner to his left and to his right, as if the man might emerge on cue.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Douglas said, reaching out to touch the stained sheet that covered the thing.

"What are you--" Herring started to say, but he was struck dumb by the smell that filled the room as soon as Douglas removed the sheet. "Oh, my God...what _is _that?"

Douglas rose to his feet and stepped back, holding his nose. In one hand, he still held the sheet pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "It's not alive, there's that much. Nothing alive could smell like that."

He hoped.

"Cover it up!" Herring said, hacking. He undid the top button on his shirt and covered his nose with it. "Damn!"

But Douglas was frozen in place by fascination and disgust. Now he knew what the people on TV were talking about when they referred to something "too horrible to look at, but too fascinating _not_ to look at." This was exactly that. The object which had been covered with the blood-stained sheet was about the size of a dog, but it actually looked more like a cat. What exactly it had been was not possible to determine; it had been gutted and peeled apart beyond identification. Possibly by a human, but only if he or she had been using a particuarly cruel tool...or was particularly cruel, him- or herself.

Douglas shivered, then dropped the sheet back over the dead creature. The smell abated slightly, but remained fairly strong.

"Let's get out of here," Herring said. "At least out of this room. That thing stinks!"

"Don't have to tell me twice," Douglas agreed, and they started down the hall to the right. Neither of them thought to cast another glance over their shoulders.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

The walls were a decaying grayish-white color, run down from years of disuse. If Brookhaven had been inhabited within the last ten years or so, it certainly didn't show; even the tiled floors--alternating faded green and yellow--were cracked and peeling in places. The ceiling looked particularly bad in some places, scuffed in others to the point that Douglas feared it might collapse in on them if provoked. The fragmented light fixtures hadn't worked when Douglas had tried the main switch by the reception office across from the entrance, and so Douglas carried a flashlight--produced from within his coat--in his left hand.

At the end of the hallway on the first floor, the path split in a T to the left and right. Around the corner to the right was a metal door. Douglas tried it and it opened with some resistance. On the other side was a long-used deadbolt, which had begun to slide out of its fixture. It clattered noisily within its hold. Douglas glanced up the stairs and was immediately disheartened; the stairs continued up for about half a floor, but they were impossible to see beyond that point, as the ceiling had collapsed in on them.

"Damn it," Douglas muttered under his breath.

"What?" Herring asked, his hand dropping back to the butt of his gun as he rushed to the detective's side. "Something up there?"

"Stairwell's blocked," he responded, slamming the door. Its loud and metallic bang echoed throughout the abandoned halls, sending a chill up Douglas' spine.

If anyone--or any_thing_--_was_ here, they now knew Douglas and Herring were here, as well. That sound had probably carried throughout the whole floor, perhaps the whole building. The loneliness of that sound--the sheer absence of _other _sound around it--drove home the feeling of abandonment, and filled Douglas with a deep sorrow, like that which visits one who returns to the lost home of his or her broken childhood.

"There might be another one somewhere," Herring pondered aloud.

Douglas knew there was; turning left from the branch instead of right, he came to the end of the hallway--and just around the corner to the left, an elevator. Taking the decayed state of the rest of the building into consideration, he had expected the same of the elevator. But when he stood before it, he could see a faint light emanating from the floor marker just above the door. A yellow glow emitted from a circle on which the numeral "1" had been printed.

"Well, I'll be," Douglas said, his hand drifting towards the button that would open the door. But before it got there, Herring's hand grasped his arm.

"You know it's not safe," Herring said. "In a place this old? What if the door shuts, and we get stuck inside?"

"We'll break the door down," Douglas said, brushing his partner's hand away. "These doors look like they might blow over from a stiff breeze."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Herring conceded, allowing Douglas to press the open door button.

A slow, shrill noise emanated from beyond the doors. After a moment of uneasy anticipation, the doors finally creaked open, resisting with all their might--now that they were moving, Douglas could see that the left one was bent in its track--and the officers boarded the elevator. The doors closed behind them with a resounding crash, and the cab began to move upward. It sounded more like a tired robot drone than an elevator cab (for some reason, Herring conjured a picture of R2-D2, that robot from the movie _Star Wars,_ in his mind...God, he hated that movie). When at last the doors rolled open and afforded the pair a view of the second floor hallway, Douglas felt a ringing in his ears that, he speculated, would be there for awhile.

Herring, too, seemed to hear it, as he picked irritably at his right ear with his finger.

The second floor was in a lot better shape than the first floor; the tiles on the floor appeared to have been recently redone. When Douglas shone the light on them, it reflected back up at him. The walls seemed to have been repainted, perhaps just a few days ago. But looking up, Douglas noticed that the light fixtures were still broken. Looking back down at the tiles, he noticed something that shook his nerve.

The tiles were broken and misshapen. They no longer looked as if they had been fixed up.

"Herring?" Douglas said, motioning towards the ground.

"What is it?"

"Did you see that?"

"See what?"

_Great, _he thought. _I hope to God I'm just getting old._ "Nothing," he said, and turned right into a hallway at the far corner of the room. But before he took a step down the hall, he noticed something very odd.

The hall had been barricaded at the far end, stuffed wall-to-wall and ceiling-to-floor with...furniture. A large operating table served as the barricade's centrifuge, and countless other items surrounded it as tightly as possible, crammed into every space, every nook and every cranny--here a broken swivel-chair, there a piece of some kind of shelf or other item, books and various articles of garbage and clothing filling in the spaces that were too small to accomodate larger, denser objects.

"That looks like awfully focused work," Herring said, rubbing his chin. "You'd almost need a machine for something like that. Maybe a compactor, or something."

"But what I want to know is, why?" Douglas said. "Who and why?"

"Well, I guess we won't find out just standing around here," Herring said, tapping Douglas' shoulder. "Let's go that way," he said, pointing down the hall past the elevator.

"Wait," he said, approaching a door on the wall near the barricade. It read, "Day Room," and the knob refused to turn when Douglas grasped it.

"Locked?" Herring said, not requiring an answer to varify his suspicion.

At the end of the hall past the elevator, they passed a rickety-looking door with two large panes. On the higher pane was a small rectangular sign made of metal that read, "Examining Room 3." Douglas tried the knob, and it opened...but so did part of the door. It collapsed in on itself and crumbled into three pieces, one of which clung to the top hinge like an imitation of a tavern door in an old Western movie. Douglas broke off the remaining piece so as not to hurt himself on it, and passed through the doorway into the examining room.

It was just as the sign had informed them, only much filthier. The ceiling in one corner was eroded and bubbly, as if affected by some kind of chemical agent, and the disfigurement ran all the way down to the floor. Several glass jars lay on the floor in front of the far counter, shattered in some long-forgotten conflict. The examining table had been broken off of its stand and lay against the far wall, half-on and half-off the stand at an awkward angle.

"The force required for that is beyond what any person could supply," Douglas said, pointing to the table. Its base was a thick wooden stump, perhaps two or three feet in diameter. "What could have done this?"

"Axe?"

"No," Douglas said. "The angle's weird for an axe. Look--the way it's broken at an upward angle, way down near the ground like that. It would have been a lot of trouble to get low enough to swing an axe at that angle. And it's blocked from the other side by the wall--you'd have to squeeze between the wall and the table, and it'd be too tight a fit to get enough leverage to do any damage with an axe. Or any sharp implement, for that matter. Maybe a chainsaw, but...there's still the matter of the angle."

"Well, the only choice is to keep moving," Herring said. "Are you _sure _this is where this kid of yours is? I don't think it'd be possible to keep anyone in here. That, and we haven't exactly seen any staff."

"She's here," Douglas said, taking one more precursory glance around the ruined exam room. "She's got to be."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Long story."

"I got nowhere to be."

"Later, okay?" Douglas was beginning to sound irritable again.

"Okay," Herring settled. "I'll hold you to that."

In the hallway, to the left of the exam room, was the top of the collapsed stairwell. The entire wall around the door had caved in, leaving a cross-section of the building where it had intersected the other walls.The door lay on top of the debris, partially buried but still mostly visible. It was cracked, but did not otherwise appear to be greatly damaged.

"Must've been an earthquake, or something," Herring mused. "To take all this crap out at once."

"No," Douglas said. "That's not it. I was just here three days ago."

"What?" Herring said, hesitating. "Wait, you were here before? And when were you planning on running this past me?"

"Now."

"Why didn't you tell me before, when we were talking about the weird stuff back at the jail?"

"I didn't think it was important." Douglas approached the double-doors across from the collapsed stairwell. "But now I realize that I might have been wrong."

"What happened here? Something important happened, didn't it?" Herring paused, thinking to himself. "That's how you knew where she'd be, isn't it?"

"Partially," Douglas admitted. "I already knew she was here before, though. This is where she was taken right after her father's murder, three years ago."

"The Morris kid? Yeah, I heard about her. Big story, it was all over the news. But she was being held here involuntarily. I don't think she'd still be here, with things like this. She would've run off, or at least been transferred, or something."

Pushing down on the bar so the door would open, Douglas shook his head. "You'd think. But things are different here. You know that." He went through the doors, and Herring followed.

"Quit being so damn cryptic!" Herring said. "I don't have time to sort out what you're saying. Just tell me up front! Give it to me straight."

"In a minute, okay?" Douglas said, starting down the dilapidated patient wing. He hesitated after a few steps, unsure of where to go next. Three doors lined the wall to the right, the last one disappearing down the hall past the point where the flashlight could illuminate no more. Only the edge of it was visible. However, to the left, patient's rooms existed at regular increments all the way down the hall, presumably to the far end. He finally settled on the left side of the hall, and approached the first door, labeled "Room M1". He tried the handle, but it was either broken or locked (or both), because it stuck fast. Douglas pounded on the door. "Heather? You in there?" Put his ear up to the door. Nothing. He went to the next door, M2, and repeated the same process. Again, locked and no reply. After trying the third door, also to no avail, he sighed and looked at Herring.

"Things not going like you planned?" Herring asked.

"What if she _is _in one of these rooms, but she can't hear or see us? Or maybe she _can,_ but she can't respond somehow?"

Herring threw his hands up. "I doubt it. There's nobody here but you and I, and--" he stopped there, because there _was_ another person here, a person who seemed a likely candidate to meddle in their affairs: Green Coat Man. "Okay, maybe. But what if, say, Green Coat Man has her in there, held hostage? What's your plan, bust the lock, leap in there Jack Bauer-style and ask the guy who he's working for?"

Douglas seemed to be at a loss for words.

"Look, Doug," he said, shaking his head. "You can't worry too much about this. Let's look for her everywhere we can, and if we still haven't found her by the time we check all the rooms in the building, then we'll think about what to do next. Think logically. You gotta work this out just like any other case."

"I've only been on one other missing persons case in this town," Douglas said. "That ended badly, too."

"Another good thing to do is quit talking like you've already failed," Herring said. "I don't think she's here, myself, but even if she isn't, that doesn't mean she's gone for sure. She could be anywhere in this town."

"You're not helping," Douglas told him.

"Just focus. I'm more worried about that damn Green Coat Man than I am about her safety. And by that, of course, I mean I think she'll be fine."

_Oh, if only you knew the half of it,_ Douglas thought to himself. _If only you knew._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_He opens his eyes, and there is red dust floating in the wind all around him._

_The wind?_

_Yes, there is wind here. A powerful current flows around him, a satanic ribbon of blood-red dust, and it stings his eyes. He raises an arm to cover his eyes, and realizes that the fabric of his sleeve is not black, as it should be, but a dark white tainted with unknowable stains. Unnerved, he looks down at his feet and sees two thick black metal boots. They contain the heat very well, for he can feel the sweat accumulating against the bottoms of his vapor-tight soles. The robe he is wearing is also hot, but not quite as bad as the boots. He wonders what kind of crazy person would wear clothes like these in this heat, and then realizes the irony of this thought, and chuckles to himself. Said chuckle is quickly defeated, however, when the heavy wind carries scorching dust into his mouth. He gags, coughs, covering his mouth with one robed hand--on top of everything else, the sleeves are too damned long--and falls to his knees, gazing into the red-orange sun, an unnaturally red orb spinning in the sky, with a dark core that burns with a cold emptiness._

_It's so damned hot in here, he doesn't know how he will be able to make it. He can't even remember how he got here, or where he's supposed to go, but he feels a powerful sense of urgency. Time is running out. He starts forward, putting one foot in front of the other, taking long, careful strides through this nightmare desert of sorts._

_Up ahead, he sees something, obscured by the filthy winds. It's oblong and white, and suspended by some force several feet above the ground. As he gets closer, the winds thin out a bit and he is able to see that the object is a billboard, and he is walking down a road. A street. A city street, perhaps? No matter. He looks up at the billboard, which couldn't seem more out of place here than anywhere else. It reads _God Is A Good Man._ A message which chills his heart, for some reason. Perhaps some hidden memory is tied to the billboard's meaning. Perhaps not. But the otherwise blank white canvas, with that single ominous phrase printed across it, speaks to him as a devil might, as if in a nightmare. Which this surely must be; no place as this could exist in real life._

_His eyes drift down to the post on which the billboard is mounted, and is shocked and horrified to see that a body has been nailed to it, apparently by hand. No, wait...by nailgun. Too clean and quick to have been done by hand. He steps closer to the body, disturbed as hell, and examines it closely. One nail, driven through both feet, pins them to the bottom of the post like an insect specimen; the knees are drawn up slightly, as if in its dying moments the corpse had tried to revert to the fetal position. The arms are pulled around to the other side of the post, and have been nailed to the post and to one another. Tousled white hair dances in the wind atop the corpse's head, pulled back from the nail which has been driven into its brow, the nail which rests just above a paper sign that reads _SLEEP._ It's not until he sees the priest's collar around the corpse's neck, however, that he finally detects the cruel satire, the billboard's meaning. It doesn't make logical sense, yet he understands it. Perhaps this is the result of another hidden memory? The thought unnerves him. Why can't he remember anything?_

_Shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the odd despair which has begun to creep over him, he pushes onward down the road. Another billboard up ahead. He dreads the meaning of this one, but feels that it is nonetheless important. He stays to the edge of the road, holding up an arm to shield himself from the painful wind, which is getting worse by the minute._

_This billboard is also white canvas, and it also has a phrase written on it: _This Is Life._ Another message which chills him deeply, this time to the bone. He wishes that he had gotten out of here when he'd had the chance._

_How did he remember that? Weird._

_Growing slightly more disturbed, feeling his mind bending from the stress and the insanity which abounds in this forsaken place, he presses on, this time crossing the street. He doesn't care if it's important or not; he doesn't want to read any more of those creepy billboards. All they're doing is freaking him out._

_Finally! Up ahead, he sees a small building, not much but maybe enough to provide shelter. He starts to run towards it, and feels a tremendous strain in his feet. He's forgotten that he's wearing extremely heavy boots, boots that are much too heavy to run in. He'll have to walk. But that doesn't ease his sense of urgency._

_The wind hinders his progress greatly, to the point where he feels as if he might be losing consciousness, but when the edge of his vision starts to blacken, he bites his lip, pulls himself together, and pushes on. Finally, after what literally seems like an eternity--he can't feel time anymore, and it's depressing, this vast sense of empty, eternal timelessness, as if everything in the universe is dead and God has committed suicide and he is finally, truly alone in this universe, in all universes--he reaches the front yard of the building. Well, it can't rightly be called a front yard, at least not in the conventional sense--there is no grass, nothing but molten dirt and, in one corner, what appears to be a protruding limb, perhaps a hand. He can't tell from here, and he doesn't want to be able to. Shaking his head, feeling his heart speed up and trying in vain to prevent it from doing so, he crosses the dead place and places his hand around the knob on the front door of the shed...and pulls his hand back immediately, cursing under his breath. The doorknob is red-hot. He looks down, urgently seeking a way in, and sees a button for a doorbell. Not sure why he would even think it feasible to expect a response, he pushes the button. Lo and behold, fifteen seconds later, the doorknob turns, and the door pulls inward, a ghostly invitation to a fate surely worse than death but, just as surely, millions of times better than what is happening--what _has _happened--out here._

_As he steps inside, he hears the door shut behind him. He turns, expecting to see something horrifying beyond imagining...and instead sees nothing. Which is what he really, truly expected. That sense of being alone in existence, being the last of everything, does not exist without reason. He is completely, undeniably alone. There is no earth; no heaven, no hell; no life, no afterlife; not even the great emptiness, for even emptiness has substance. There is only...nothing. Nowhere. A state of nonexistence into which all things have fallen, and which he has been forever denied. The state before the beginning, and after the end. The state from which nothing that has entered can return--True Death._

_Turning back around, he sees before him a small room, empty but for a small wooden card table and two chairs, one on each side. He feels that he was supposed to share this table with someone, but that someone is long gone...or maybe he or she never existed in the first place. There's certainly no evidence that they ever did, for even their memory is now forever lost._

_He sits down at the table, welling up with an eternal despair that he knows will follow him through the end of time and onward into nothingness, should he ever be allowed to make it that far, and sees a small document on the table. Parchment. It has been rolled up and taped down with beige masking tape. On the sheet is written the word _Walter Sullivan.

_He picks it up and unfurls it, fighting to breathe in the stale air of the decrepit room, feeling the tiny shack tremble beneath the might of the hellish, torrential wind outside. It's a letter, addressed to him, personally._

Dear Walter,

I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you. But it's too late for me to intervene now. Things are getting out of hand, and I've been revoked of my position. Soon, I, too, will be cast out, and then I'll probably just cease to be. However, if I survive, then things will only get worse for you. I don't hate you, but I do find a sick sort of pleasure in the thought that we may meet again, under drastically altered circumstances. Be ready for that day, Dear Walter, for it may come sooner than you expect.

I found out about your origins--where you came from, who you _really_ are--but I never got the chance to tell you. My original intent was to wait until the time was right and then tell you in person, to make sure you completely understood, but now that I see it will never happen, I have made my decision. I will not tell you the things

I thought you needed to know, at least, I won't tell you right now. If we meet again, then mayhap you will be able to get your answers out of me. You were always good at playing people like video games, pushing buttons, controlling them while making them think they were in control. I always envied you of that.

But I digress; I must tell you this before I go--_Be careful _ from here on out. Things will not be the game they have always been for you. They are about to get serious, and you'll need all your wits about you if you want to hold on to your life, your sanity, and your very essence. I wish I could explain to you exactly how much is at stake here, but there's little time. However, when I finally do cease to be, although it will be with many regrets, it will also be with the knowledge that

you still have the potential to carry out what we were supposed to do together, from the beginning. You have my will. Do with it as you must, but do not fail. You

hear me? _Do not fail. _You can't afford to.

--Sincerely,

Walter Sullivan

_Reading the words accentuates the urgency which now flows through his veins like malignant blood. He reads the letter again, unable to fully comprehend the nature of what he has been told by the Other Walter's last testament. On his third reading, he uses his right index finger to trace the words on the paper, trying to fully absorb their meaning--his traitor brain refuses to acknowledge what lies before him--and he feels something under the paper, just under the first instance of the phrase _Do not fail._ Some solid object. Without hesitation, he turns the paper over, and sees a small shape which appears to have been taped to the back of the paper. Was it there when he first came in? He can't remember. Well, it doesn't matter. He pulls the tape off of the object slowly, so as not to damage it, and takes the object in his left hand._

_It's a key. Very similar to the key with the doll chain that he already has in his pocket, but slightly different in that this keychain bears a tag which reads _Ramones: It's Alive! 1978!_ Odd, but not as odd as some of the things around here. He reaches for his coat pocket, but realizes that his coat has been replaced with a white robe, so instead he clasps the object tightly in his fisted hand._

_As before, when he was sitting in his room so long ago, before everything went wrong, before all was plunged into Nowhere, he feels a very powerful vertigo, a sense of tipping, tipping, leaning. Something out there, somewhere, some vital part of everything, is about to be torn asunder and cast into Nowhere, and there is nothing he can do about it. Only one person can stop the End, the Final Death of Everything, but that person is trapped in infinite limbo, a mobius loop of repetition and revelations and ordeals that will forever be repeated until he can learn to overcome himself, in spite of his inability to do so. Infinity has given the powers behind this accursed place enough time to find a way around that loop, and soon, even Infinity will not be able to hold a candle to Nothing._

_The End is coming._

_Walter screams._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Walter awoke with a cry of terrified outrage, every muscle in his body tensed to the point of agony. He was sitting up in some kind of long, narrow box, with his hands on either side of it, poised as if to hoist himself out of it. He sat that way for almost a minute, unable to recall exactly where the hell he was, until it hit him.

He was in the graveyard.

And he was sitting in his own grave.

Crying out again, he scrambled out of the box as though it were filled with cockroaches--scurrying bastards of which he was deathly afraid--and looked back down on it. The numbers 11/21 were scrawled on the bottom of it, in red. Blood? Maybe. Unless whoever dug up the body of the Other Walter had carried something to write with when they'd done the deed.

"Henry?" Walter said out loud, suddenly aware that he was all alone in the graveyard. "Henry? Where'd you go?"

No response.

"Henry?" He started towards the door to the gravesite. When he reached the threshold, he gazed out into the woods, and then up into the evening sky, which was beginning to turn a darker blue. It had been dark before, but now it was almost _too _dark. Not quite nighttime luminosity yet, but getting close.

And here he was, all alone in the heart of the woods. Alone with his realizations; he no longer had Henry to help him figure things out. It was starting to look like he was on his own.

On his own, and almost to town.

END OF CHAPTER 16


	17. The Girl, The Man, and The Mansion

**Chapter 17**

**The Girl, The Man, and The Mansion**

_"Once again you have messed up this whole town,_

_So get down, river, get down..."_

"Get Down River," The Bottle Rockets

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As is usually the case when searching for someone, it was not until Douglas and Herring had reached the top floor of the hospital--the last possible place to look--that they heard the girl's voice in the distance. It was a shrill whining, the implications of which were indiscernable--good, or bad?

Douglas' eyes grew wide with recognition, and although Herring saw this, he was unable to even form a reaction before Douglas broke into a run down the hallway, towards the far end of this progression of cells (Herring was pretty sure you didn't call them cells in a mental hospital, there was probably some more sensitive way of putting it, but at the moment he didn't rightly care). "Douglas, wait!" Herring called, and chased after him.

"She's here," Douglas said. "I knew it, I knew she was here!" He slowed to a stop at the end of the row, the last room--S14--and peered in through the bars on the door's upper panel. "That's her voice, I know it!"

Herring reached him and stopped, breathing heavily. "How do you know it's her?" He asked, glaring at the detective.

"It's her," Douglas said, his voice filled with some kind of cracking emotion (probably a mixture of joy and fear). "I just know it's her. That's her voice." But the emotion in his voice began to taper off as he stared into the room.

"What's wrong?" Herring asked, pushing Douglas aside and sticking his face up to the bars. He, too, felt his emotions drop a level when he spotted the empty room. He thought it was probably sympathy for Douglas, but at the same time he thought there might be something more to that than he was allowing himself to realize. "She's not here," he heard himself say.

"No," Douglas disagreed. "She _is _here. Just not in this room. _Heather!_" Hope lit him up again, as if that despair that had bloomed in his eyes moments ago had only been a brief digression and the hope had really been there all along, just under the surface. "Heather, where are you? Can you hear me?"

"Douglas," Herring sighed, sure that the detective was setting himself up for a major disappointment. Athe same time, though...what about the voice they'd heard? That whine? It had definitely come from a person. A person had to be here to make that noise. But why? Nobody was here to restrain her, should she decide to wander off on her own. The only alternative was that she was staying here of her own accord. There could be other, darker possibilities, he supposed, but as of right now he was still a fairly firm believer in the solidity of reality--he didn't see things going as far as those other possibilities would require.

Douglas traveled from door to door, trying each handle on each door. All of them were jammed shut, unopenable without some kind of heavy tool, and all of them were vacant, except for the third one from the entrance--S3. When Douglas leaned against it, pressing the handle, it collapsed under his weight and swung inward on its hinges, spilling Douglas into the room.

"Douglas!" Herring cried out, rushing to meet his partner--he felt certain that something terrible would be waiting for Douglas in that room, probably the damned Green Coat Man, he couldn't get that bastard out of his head--and fell in right behind him. On his way into the room, he tripped over Douglas' heel and fell on top of him, startling a cry of _Oof!_ from his partner.

"Damn it, Herring!" Douglas mumbled, rolling the officer off of his back.

"Sorry," Herring said, picking himself up and dusting himself off with both hands. Cracked and broken plaster, having chipped off of the walls over the past few years of disuse, now covered the back half of his uniform, and swam through his hair like dandruff whose size has been increased dramatically by nuclear radiation. He brushed off as much of it as he could, using his cap as a duster, and then replaced his cap on top of his head and brushed it off with his fingers. When he finally found himself looking forward into the room, he felt his mouth fall open in a gape.

What...the...hell? That was the only phrase his mind could come up with. What...the...hell? Dots included.

"What _is _this?" Douglas asked, pointing at the thing off of which neither lawman could take his eyes.

An oblong, rectangular hole covered the far end of the room, by the window. It ran the full width of the room--which wasn't long, but probably enough for a full-grown man or two to fit into it--and disappeared down into a dark abyss. A tiny red ladder peered up out of the abyss, as though it had crawled up from hell with a message, beckoning to Douglas and Herring over the mouth of the pit. The ladder was nailed to the ground just outside of the hole, but the nails looked weak and rusty with age, as if they would be ready to give at any moment.

Douglas peered over the edge of the hole and flashed his light down, to see how far it would go. Not far enough; he couldn't see the bottom. Some kind of sticky red-and-black substance, almost veinous, lined the walls of the pit in messy patches, like the white splotches on a strep-infected throat.

"You're not seriously thinking about going down there, are you?" Herring asked, looking Douglas in the eye to see if he could detect rationality there. The lack thereof chilled him to the core; the last thing he needed now was a veteran detective like Douglas to snap on him and die an easily preventable death. He'd seen that happen all too often in the movies, like that one _Saw 2_ that he'd seen a couple of months ago in the Ashfield Cineplex.

"That's gotta be where she is," Douglas said, kneeling over the pit. "It's just _got_ to be. It explains everything--how she was able to be kept here without anyone to watch her, where she went when she...disappeared..."

"What are you babbling about?" Herring said, taking Douglas by one tense shoulder. "You never said she disappeared, you only said she was put in an institution."

"She disappeared before the last time I was here," Douglas said. "She'd been in this place for a long time before that. But last time I was here, nobody knew where she was--said she'd gone missing. I asked how that could be, and I got mad when they wouldn't tell me...probably too mad, since they booted me out for upsetting some of the patients. I assumed that she'd just gotten out and maybe run away somewhere. But this...this explains everything. She never escaped at all. She was here all along. They probably reported her missing when they couldn't find her at first, but...you think it would've been a much bigger deal, when a person who's been declared criminally insane disappears from a place like this for such a long time."

"What?" Herring shook his head. "This place hasn't even been a functioning facility for a long time, Douglas. What you're saying can't be true."

"It is true," Douglas insisted. "This isn't the Brookhaven I visited three days ago. It's different. It's the 'other side' of Brookhaven. This must be...this must be what she saw, back then. Yeah! It explains everything."

Herring was full of genuine concern for Douglas. He hoped the detective wouldn't lose it on him here. He wouldn't even be as worried as he was, if only he knew what Douglas was talking about.

"Listen," Douglas said, finally meeting Herring's uncertain stare. "I know you're probably thinking I'm crazy or something, but I'm not. Do you have confidence in my ability?"

"What?" Herring asked. "What do you mean?"

"All those times, all those years ago, when we worked together and you trusted me with your life, and I trusted you with mine. When you let me cover your back. Did you believe in me then? In my judgement?"

"Well, yeah," Herring said. "Of course I did."

"And do you, still? If we had to take down some bad guys, and I had to cover your back, would you still have faith in me, and in my judgement?"

Herring looked at Douglas for a long time, hesitating--not because he didn't know the answer, but because he wasn't sure if telling Douglas would be wise. Finally, he said, "Yes. Yes, I do. But that doesn't change the fact that I have no _fucking _clue what's going on here, and it's starting to get to me just a bit."

"Me, too," Douglas said. "Before, things were different, because I wasn't the important one. _She _was, _Heather _was. But now, it's up to you and me."

"_What's_ up to you and me?"

"Taking care of business," Douglas said cryptically. "I don't know, to be perfectly honest. All I know is, we've got to go down there. Heather's down there, and she needs my help, now more than ever."

"_Your _help?" Herring said, standing up. "Wait just a minute, friend. You're not thinking of going down there yourself, are you?"

"It's safer that way," Douglas insisted. "You stay up here, in case the ladder breaks or something. You could go back to the storeroom and see if there's anything that could be used to pull me back out, like a rope or something."

"No way, Doug!" Herring said. "I'm not staying here alone."

"I know you're afraid," Douglas said. "I am, too. But if you follow me, and we get stuck, then we're probably going to die here. I'd sooner take the chance of dying on my own down there, by something weird, than the chance of us both dying down there just because we can't get back up."

Herring shivered; he thought about asking Douglas how he could possibly know that they would die down there if the ladder broke, but found himself unwilling to do so...for some reason, that remark was resonating with the feeling he had right now, and it disturbed him deeply.

"Just trust me," Douglas said. "Okay? I'll be fine. I've done things like this before."

Herring hesitated further, almost unsure that he would be able to let this go...and then he did. "Fine. But if you die down there..."

"Don't worry, I won't." And with that, Douglas mounted the ladder and started to climb down.

All at once, Herring was all too aware of a feeling in his heart--the feeling that this was the last time he was going to see Douglas Cartland, alive or ever. He thought about calling to Douglas one last time, but he restrained himself. Perhaps, if he had found the strength to keep Douglas from going down into that black-and-red pit alone, then fate would not have slipped between them so soon after, or in such a severe manner.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas was thankful that he'd remembered to clip his flashlight to his front pocket before descending the ladder; without it, he would not have been able to see below him when he glanced downward. He knew that looking down was probably not a wise decision--The phrase, "Don't Look Down," echoed in his mind, called from the recesses of childhood memory by this more recent experience--but it was better than looking up at Herring, who continued to favor him with that puppy-like expression of despair. Also, he wasn't entirely sure that the ladder would continue all the way to the bottom; if he were to come to the bottom of the ladder, then he would have to make the decision of jumping the rest of the way to the bottom, or climbing back up the ladder. If it weren't for Heather, he would not even consider the former...but what would be, would be.

After a long while--what felt like an hour but couldn't have been more than five or ten minutes, tops--Douglas came to the last rung on the ladder. He slipped, expecting his foot to find purchase where there was none, and for a moment he hung there, suspended only by one arm. He quickly grasped the third rung from the bottom with his other hand, and then pulled his feet up to rest on the last rung, his heart racing all the while.

In the distance, he realized, he could hear a faint sound, like running water. A constant, steady noise that should have seemed tranquil but did not. He fumbled to point his flashlight downward without disconnecting it from his pocket--he didn't take it off of the clip, for fear of losing it in the pit--and realized that he still could not see the bottom. He paused, to consider whether he should try the drop or continue back up the ladder.

Before he could think twice about it, though, he felt the ladder give severely in his grip--one of the nails must have come loose from the top.

"Shit," Douglas muttered under his breath. If he was going to make it back up, he would have to hurry. He put his hand on the next rung up, and that was when he felt it give completely. There was the sound of scraping metal, then sparks, and then the ladder was falling, falling, down into the dark abyss.

Still holding onto the last few rungs, Douglas realized that he would be crushed by the ladder, if he was in this position when it hit the ground. Trying not to fall off of the ladder as it plummeted, he reached his hand around it and grabbed the third rung from the bottom on the other side. He then used that hand to pull his feet around to the other side of the ladder, until his entire body was on the side of the ladder that was positioned away from the ground.

Then, there was contact.

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"_Douglas!_"

Herring's heart was racing; he'd seen the nails jerk loose, and he'd tried to hold the ladder up until Douglas could make it back up or all the way down, but it had been phenomenally heavy. He'd dropped it without being able to hold it for even one second, and down it had gone. Into the pit. There was no way Douglas would be able to lift that ladder back up.

Unless he, Herring, could find something to use to pull it back up. Or to pull Douglas back up.

He stood up, all of a sudden afraid to get too close to the edge of the pit, and started to turn towards the door to the cell...when his eyes happened upon the room's only window, on the wall over the pit. The blinds were open, but a thick grate covered the window, plausibly to prevent suicide attempts on the part of the patients, but this was not what had attracted his attention. The window overlooked the green behind the hospital, affording what would normally be a calming view to the patients.

Coming across the green, however, and thus detracting from the tranquility of the view, was Herring's old friend, Green Coat Man. And he was headed towards the building. He was already close enough so that the fog did not obscure any part of him.

"No," Herring said. "No, not now." He was no longer as afraid of Green Coat Man as he had been earlier--Douglas' safety had distracted him far too much for that--but even so, this was the worst possible time for Green Coat Man to show up. Now, he would have to hurry to get Douglas back up from the pit--and he would have to hope that Douglas would resolve his business down there quickly--before Green Coat Man had a chance to interfere. For if he did, then Douglas would surely be lost.

Herring tore out of the room, heading for the storage room in the main area.

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Douglas stood up too quickly, and his head was racked with a sudden and powerful headache. He gripped his forehead with both hands and cried out softly, cursing under his breath. After a moment, the headache abated, and he was able to bring his head up all the way. But as soon as he did, he wished he hadn't.

His eyes were slowly adjusting in the minimal illumination offered by the flashlight, and he could see things teeming all over the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Of course, only part of the ceiling was actually present; the rest of it consisted of the "pit" from which he had come. Douglas didn't have to think too long about it to realize that he was much deeper than any floor of the hospital; he was deep beneath the earth itself, if he was even still in the same world.

He couldn't tell just by looking around that he _was_ in the same world; even on his earlier trip to Silent Hill, back when he'd been helping Heather hunt that Claudia woman, he hadn't seen anything like this. Flashing his light on the walls, he could see that they were covered with a writhing red substance that looked like many different tiny, interconnected parasites of some kind. They looked like unsegmented worms, but were about an inch in length, and one end of their bodies consisted of what appeared to be a proboscis. Thankfully, the floor was spared this startling change--it was merely an iron grate, suspended over a drop that, surely, was far greater than the one he had just experienced--but even so, he could not bear the sensation of being surrounded on all sides by those wriggling things. They disgusted him deeply...and, he realized, the sound he'd heard earlier--the one that had sounded like running water--was not running water at all, but instead the shrill, intermingled squeals of those horrible parasite-things. This realization forced from him a cry of disgusted, terrified outrage.

In the distance, he heard a scream. He couldn't tell if it was human or not. He turned, trying to isolate the direction from which the scream had come, and found that there was a passage right in front of where he had landed. It traveled in a direction away from where the ladder had hung. With a hesitation that he could not have forseen himself offering, he proceeded forward, drawing his gun from his coat pocket. He would not allow himself to be taken by surprise again.

The passage was very narrow--no more than a few feet in width--and at first, Douglas didn't know if he would be able to make himself traverse it, for it, too, was covered with wriggling red parasites. He heard the scream again, though, and his desire to find out whether it belonged to Heather or not drove him forward. He was able to squeeze into the passage sideways, so as to avoid contact with the wriggling things.

After what felt like an eternity, the passage widened into a much larger room. As in the room before it, there was absolutely no independent illumination; without his flashlight, Douglas would be completely blind, with only the screeching of the parasites to accompany him. A thought he deemed rather unpleasant. Parts of the floor, he noticed, were dabbed with parasites, as if they had fallen off of the wall. Some of these renegades were dead, others still alive and wriggling. One of them started to approach Douglas in a slithering motion, and Douglas raised his foot to stomp it...but at the last minute, he thought better of it, and just stepped over it. He didn't want to take the chance, unlikely as it may have been, that the little bastard could seep through his boot and into his foot, somehow.

At long last, he came to the end of the hall. A steel door, surrounded on three sides by wriggling parasites. The door's top panel consisted of three slots running the full length of the panel, and the bottom half was solid, with no decoration to speak of. There was no knob or handle anywhere on this door. When the scream echoed once more, this time much closer, Douglas was able to ascertain that it was, indeed, coming from beyond this door.

Whomever--or whatever--was keeping Heather from him, was in this room.

"Heather?" Douglas called, putting his face up to the slits in the door but not touching them. "Heather, are you in there?"

He was answered with a high-pitched squeal, filled with some powerful negative emotion (despair? agony? or loneliness? Was she alone down here?), followed by some harsh whispering.

"It's me, Douglas," he called; he waited until he had finished speaking to move to the side of the door; he didn't want whoever was in there--if anyone _was _in there--to follow the sound of his voice and expect an ambush. He raised his gun to eye-level, ready for anything, and made sure a bullet was chambered.

He heard some sound--not quite footsteps, too wet and sloppy, but following a similar rhythmic pattern, as if from limbs of some kind--from beyond the door. Then, metallic noises. Somebody, or something, was fumbling with something on the other side of the door. Opening it?

The door creaked open, scraping against the metallic floor.

Douglas realized he was sweating in anticipation; what would he see? Would he ever be the same, after he saw it?

But nothing emerged.

"You may come in," a voice told him. Douglas raised his eyebrow, not sure what to think. It was the soft, pleasant voice of a man he knew he had met before, somewhere. He wasn't sure whether or not there was menace in that voice...and then he decided that it didn't matter. Nothing good could exist in a place like this, not with that level of clarity and coherence. Even if there wasn't menace there...there was surely menace in that voice's owner. He gripped his gun with both hands, to steady his trembling, and ducked through the door quickly, as he had done on many a police raid, all those years ago when he'd been Herring's _actual _partner on the police force.

"Heather?" he said, stepping into the room, aiming to either side of the door and then straight in front of him, quick as a flash, running on pure adrenaline.

"_Look out!"_ a voice screamed at him, and he turned to the source, suddenly panicked.

"Heather?"

_Ka-chink. _Right behind him.

_Oh, shit,_ Douglas thought to himself. The sound of a pump-action shotgun. In a very short period of time (less than a second), he made the decision not to turn directly around but to make a wide curving turn. He ran to the left, making a large hook around, completely blind to his surroundings--the flashlight did not illuminate enough of the room to afford combat. He made the move just in time, too--he heard the loud report of the shotgun, heard the metal buckshot hit the metal floor, saw the sparks fly. He hit the person with the shotgun, tackling him from the left--he'd been unable to turn to face Douglas quickly enough, thanks to the shotgun's recoil--and they both hit the floor. Douglas put his gun to the man's temple and bellowed, "_Drop it!_ Now!"

But that was when he realized...the "person" who was holding the shotty was not a person at all. Douglas leapt to his feet, cringing, his heart speeding up unimaginably, as he stared down at the abomination. It wore a short white suit-coat, as a doctor or hospital director might wear, and white pants...but its face was a white amorphous, jiggly mass. It looked like an enlarged, discolored version of the parasite creatures which lined the walls of this place. Beneath the wriggling shape, he saw the shadow of something much more horrible, struggling to get free. It almost looked like a face of some kind.

"_Shoot it, shoot it!"_

Douglas did not hesitate; he pointed his gun at the thing's face and fired once, twice, thrice, four times. The sac-thing which served as its head splattered in all directions, spraying the walls, floor, and ceiling with those tiny red parasite things. The hands holding the shotgun twitched twice, the second time slower than the first, and then dropped the gun. It clattered harmlessly to the floor in front of the creature. The rest of the thing just fell over onto its back, hands splayed...and Douglas realized that its hands were also of that amorphous white substance. It seemed that no part of the creature was human, or ever had been. It only wore humans' clothing. A phrase occurred to Douglas: _Wolf in sheep's clothing._

Then, with his adrenaline rush gradually leaving him, he was able to recall for what reason he'd come here: "Heather!" He turned and ran toward the center of the room, toward the source of the voice that had warned him--the voice that had effectively saved his life.

"Good God," he said, as his flashlight fell upon the creature in the center of the room. It looked like Heather, he supposed, but only in the faintest respect; She was merely a shell of her former beautiful self.

"You came," she said meekly. Her voice was dry and weak, as if from starvation or thirst. "I knew you would." But she didn't move from where she was.

"What..._happened _to you?" he said, feeling tears reach the corners of his eyes. He squeezed them back; now was not the time to break.

She sat in the middle of the room, which was empty except for a rolling cart, just a few feet to her left, that contained buckets and cases filled with unimaginable instruments of torment. He only needed to see the bloody, sinewy corkscrew which lay on the edge of the cart, to have seen enough to look away.

Heather herself was not even the same person. He'd seen P.O.W.s that had looked better than this; her hair was a tangled, sweaty mess, stained with blood and puss. Her face was thin and worn, and her right eye was black. There was an empty hole where her left eye should have been. Blood streamed down that cheek, both from the hole and from a long scrape down the cheek itself. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth and from one torn lip, and was caked all down her neck and around her collarbones. Her hospital gown was torn jaggedly along the top, and a bloody gouge was visible beneath it, straight across the top of her chest beneath the left collarbone. She sat on her knees, with her arms hanging helplessly at her sides, drenched with blood. Her elbows were bent slightly, as if wanting to reach out to him but too afraid to go for it. Her knees were torn and bloody, as if from dragging them across pavement somewhere.

"Oh, my God," Douglas said, approaching her. He noticed, as he came towards her, that a large ring had been molded into the ground around where she knelt. Almost like some sort of Sumo ring, but he knew that did not represent anything even close to its real purpose. "Oh, my God," he repeated, "what the hell happened to you? Who did this?"

Heather did not speak; she merely pointed to the dead thing by the door that had been holding the shotgun. Then she burst into tears of terrified joy.

Douglas could not find any words; all of a sudden, every word he'd ever learned seemed too minimal to describe what he was feeling right now. He reached out and threw his arms around her neck, unable to keep a few muffled sobs from escaping him. "It's fine now," he whispered. "Everything's gonna be fine now. It's dead."

"Not it," Heather said adamantly, despite the weakened state of her voice. "Him."

"Him?" Douglas said, releasing his grip and looking her in the eye. "What do you mean?"

"That's the Director," she said. "I can't remember his name. But it's him."

Intrigued, Douglas rose to his feet, intending to check out the body. "Can you stand up?"

"No," she answered without hesitation. "I'm not supposed to."

"It's okay now," Douglas told her, taking one hand. "He's dead now. He can't make you do anything anymore."

"I'm not supposed to," she repeated robotically, and refused to move.

Douglas sighed. This wasn't going to be easy--she seemed to be pretty warped by whatever had gone on down here. "Fine. Wait here." He left the little ring and went back to the body of the director.

Looking down at the body, once again seeing no signs of humanity whatsoever, he shivered with disgust, then returned to Heather's side. "We have to leave this place," he said, reaching his hand out.

Heather only looked at him with a hopelessly lost expression. It said _I want to, I really do. But I can't._

Douglas' question was, _Why?_ "What are you afraid of?"

Heather looked over at the body of the director, then back at Douglas. She didn't need to say anything to convey the idea.

"He's dead," Douglas said. "I killed him. You saw me do it. You helped me, remember? He won't come back." Then, after a moment's hesitation, he got an idea. "Would you feel better if I...put another bullet in him? Would you want to do it yourself, maybe? To be sure?"

She looked at him for a long time, then shook her head.

"What, then? This place isn't right; the longer you stay here, the more danger you're in." He knelt down once again, meeting her at eye level. "Look, I've got a friend who's waiting for us on the outside, in the normal world. This place isn't the real world, the one you know. You remember the real world, right? I've got friends there, like Officer Herring. He'll protect you from people like the Director, over there." He felt like a fool, talking to Heather like this. He can remember when she used to talk to _him _like he was a child, and once again found himself wondering what exactly had happened to change her so. He felt a sudden and powerful sorrow; it seemed that, even if he managed to get her out of here, Heather was changed for good; she would never again be completely the same. Even if she left this place, and moved on with her life, the things that had occurred down here seemed to have damaged some part of her irreparably. She might carry that trauma with her to her grave. Nobody would ever understand it, nor would they believe it. Nobody except himself, and possibly Herring, and as much good as it would do to have _somebody,_ it would never be enough.

"The director's dead. I made sure of it. He's not playing with your head, or anything. He's _really _dead. Now...will you please come with me?

Heather looked at him, and at the Director, and back at him again. Then her gaze fell to the floor. She nodded, but it was very subtle, unsure. As if she was only telling him what she thought he wanted to hear.

"I'm going to take you home. Come on, let's go." He took her hand. Lo and behold, she started to stand up, ever-so-slowly.

However, once they reached the edge of the ring etched on the ground, she pulled her hand free of his.

"What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not supposed to leave the circle."

"God damn it!" Douglas cursed. He immediately regretted it when Heather shrank away from him, as if expecting a blow. "No, it's not you...listen, you've got to come with me. Nothing's going to happen to you when you leave the circle, or when you leave the room. I'll make sure of it. Okay?"

She looked at him uncertainly, obviously detecting his frustration. She seemed especially concerned with trying to please him, but she also seemed convinced that this was all a trick on the Director's part, some kind of test, a test that, if failed, would bring severe punishment.

"You'll be fine," he assured her. "No more of this, now. Come on."

Heather looked at him, cast one more uncertain glance at the body of the monster that seemed to have been dubbed "The Director," and then glanced down at the circle. She shuffled her feet uncertainly, as if working up the courage to try and move them, and then she _did _move one of them. One step, right up to the edge of the cirlcle. She brought her other foot even with the first, and then slowly...slowly, she moved her first foot over the edge of the circle. She stood like that for a moment, her single eye squeezed shut, sweat pouring off of her face, and she let out a cry of terrified surprise when Douglas put a hand on her shoulder. "See? Nothing happened. You'll be fine, now come on."

Seeming to grow more comfortable with the situation, Heather quickly moved the other foot across the boundary of the circle. Standing that way, she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean to cause you trouble. He...he messes with me sometimes. He pretends to let me go, and then he hurts me when I try to leave."

"It's nothing," Douglas said. "Let's just hope Herring got something to get us up out of here."

As if on cue, a loud, metallic groan sounded in the distance. Heather squealed.

"Shh," Douglas told her, placing a finger over her mouth. He listened, and heard it again. Closer. "What's that? Do you know?"

"No," Heather said. "I...I've never heard it before."

"Let's get moving," he said. "I don't want to be here when that gets here, whatever it is."

"You can't go back that way," she said, pointing to the door through which he had come on his way in. "There's no way back up. It's too high."

"I have a friend who's going to help us out."

"It won't work."

"How do you know?"

"I tried."

Douglas muttered, thought about arguing, abandoned the idea. "Then how are we supposed to get out of here?"

"I don't know," Heather said, cowering.

"Don't do that, please," Douglas said.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Dammit...I mean, just--" He stopped, not sure how to continue. No matter what he said, she was going to freak out. He couldn't wait to get back to a place where he wasn't the only sane person.

All at once, the entire room shook hard, as if hit by something large. Some of the parasites fell off of the walls, pattering to the floor and making wet splatting noises. Their screeches multiplied. Even they seemed to be at unease. Heather threw her arms around Douglas' waist and buried her face in his side.

"Shit," Douglas said out loud. It was too late for them to get away from whatever that was; they would just have to face it. He just hoped he would be able to protect both himself and Heather.

The room shook again, and more of the parasites fell off of the wall, allowing Douglas his first adequate view of the walls...and that was when he realized what was really going on. He didn't know why it was, or how it was, but he knew _that _it was; this room was not part of a structure, as he had first imagined, but rather, it was a giant box, suspended from above by some unimaginable contraption. The room was shaking because it was being hit from the side by something large and destructive, and it was swinging violently on whatever was holding it up. He doubted he would ever know for sure what was crashing into the room, but he imagined something like a giant wrecking ball.

"We've got to get out of here, _now_," Douglas said, glancing all around. The room shook a third time, and the door through which he had entered was suddenly torn off of its hinges--this room had been separated from the hall through which he had entered. Heather shrieked and clung more tightly to Douglas' side.

"Damn it!" Douglas cried out, and the next thing he knew, they were falling--the _room_ was falling. The stale air of this non-place ran in and out of the slits in the floor and wall grates, creating a low, disquieting hum, like when one blew wind across the top of an empty bottle.

"We're going down," Heather said, just above her breath. "All the way down."

Douglas shivered, and put his arms around her.

All they could do now was wait, and see what happened.

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_How?_

How in the world had Green Coat Man figured out where they were? Did he have some kind of sixth sense? Did he have someone else who reported to him? If so, under what circumstances?

All of these questions plagued Herring as he hastily searched the third floor storage room. There was almost nothing in there to begin with--three completely empty shelves, lining the far wall and the two adjacent walls, plus a crate with utensils that Herring found to be particularly out of place here, namely a corkscrew--but he didn't give up hope that he might find something useful to help Douglas out of the pit. He finally found a rope in the stash of weird utensils, but he didn't think it would be long enough. Then, he got an idea.

He booked it back to the room with the pit...and was completely and utterly dismayed by what he found. Rather, what he _didn't _find.

The pit. It was gone. As if it had never been there.

Douglas was still down there.

"Oh, hell no," Herring said, but it was too late to do anything about it now. He had to worry about Green Coat Man. Surely he was in the building by now. Herring had to find a way to get Douglas to safety, and then get out of here. He ran out of the room and back to the double-doors that would take him to the main branch--this hall was almost identical to the second floor hall, Herring noticed, except that there were fourteen rooms instead of six.

Going through the double-doors, he found himself back in front of the stairwell door. If he headed to the right, he knew that he would encounter the elevator, but it didn't go up to the third floor--he and Douglas had tried it before, and had ended up having to use the stairwell--and so he took the stairwell, practically tearing the door off of its weak hinges. He took the steps three at a time going down, and when he emerged in the second floor main hallway, he immediately took to the left, down the hall. At the end of that hall, he came back to the elevator they had used to come up from the first floor. He got in and pressed "B," hoping that it would take him down to the basement--the crumbled stairwell blocked access to the basement and the second floor from the first floor, so the only way to reach the basement would be by elevator. By God, the elevator was actually _moving_, slowly but surely!

Moments later, the doors opened onto the basement hallway, and Herring stepped out. The floors were tiled green and yellow, the same strange colors as the floors above. The difference was...down here, everything was shiny, polished, and new. The floors reflected the light from the florescent ceiling fixtures--which actually _worked_--and the walls were clean and well-maintained, not chafed and filthy like those on the above floors.

Right away, he knew something was wrong. Unless somebody lived down here, and was particularly obsessive about cleanliness (both of which seemed mutually exclusive; he didn't know any homeless people who moved into the basements of abandoned buildings and then repainted them), then something funny was going on here. Then he remembered Douglas, though, and his worries about how the building itself seemed to be coming to life around him were temporarily forgotten. There were two doors, both wooden, on the wall in front of him, and one on the wall to his right, this one with an apparent metallic sheen. The hall continued around the corner to the right.

Herring tried the first door on the wall before him. Locked. He tried the next one, but it was locked, too. The one on the wall to the right, across the hallway, labeled "Store Room," was unlocked.

Inside, the room was clean and orderly. Unlike the third floor storeroom, there were plenty of supplies here--some hanging from racks on the wall (in the case of scalpels and other such operating tools) and others in boxes clearly labeled, none of which seemed to be out of place. No corkscrews here. A shelf, to Herring's immediate left, contained files and books and such, most notably a large medical dictionary that appeared to be at least twice the size of a standard Abridged Mirriam-Webster English Language Dictionary. Nothing.

"Damn it!" Herring hissed. He exited the room in a panic.

Continuing down the hall to the left, with the elevator on his right, he came to a final pair of doors--one, on the wall at the end of the hallway, also metallic, labeled "Electrical Room," was locked, and would not budge no matter how Herring kicked at it. The hall continued a short ways to the right, and on the wall to the right at the end of that hallway was a final door, also labeled "Store Room." Across from this door was a stairwell...which must have lead to somewhere on the first floor that he hadn't been yet, since it was not destroyed, and they had seen the stairwell from the first floor, clearly no more than a broken rubble.

This storeroom looked strikingly similar to the one on the third floor. It was larger, but it was also mostly empty, as if it had not been used in a long time. The strangest feature of it, though, was not the emptiness or the dilapidation, but the fact that it was split right down the center by a thin black mesh fence, from floor to ceiling.

"What...is this?" Herring asked, approaching the fence. He stuck a finger through it, then quickly withdrew it, as if afraid that it would bite his finger off. He pressed against it, but it would not give a millimeter. It was stiff as...well, as a metal fence. Shrugging, he turned away from the fence and left the room.

To his dismay, things were much different in the basement hall than when he had first arrived. For one, it was considerably darker; none of the lights were working, except for one, just around the corner, which was faintly buzzing and crackling, as if ready to give out. The stairwell directly in front of him was now a shambles, as it had been when viewed from the first floor...also, the walls had resumed their aged appearance. Crud was once again packed into the trim at the tops and bottoms of the walls, and the floor tiles were old, discolored, and torn up or broken in two in some places. The ceiling looked like it might simply give out in some places. Herring was careful to avoid those places, not because he was superstitious, but because he _did _believe his eyes, and because he had seen enough to know that something very weird and very dangerous was going on in this town.

That, and he had seen _Final Destination._

He raced back to the elevator, sure that it would not work and he would be trapped down here.

He was right.

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There was a loud, metallic _CLANG,_ and dust poofed up through the holes in the floor grates.

They had landed. On solid dirt, apparently.

Douglas was almost afraid to take the door out. But he was even more afraid to stay in this room. Who knew what might happen to them if they stayed? He wanted to escape this crazy world and get back to the place he knew, where physics were consistent and rooms weren't suspended over abysses. "Come on," he told Heather, and took her hand. She followed, reluctantly.

Reaching the door, Douglas realized that it was neatly aligned with a narrow hallway. That seemed odd to him, that the room could be in the midst of a suicidal free-fall, only to land perfectly lined-up with this hallway.

_Forget about it, _he told himself. _We've got to get out of here before this room pulls some more acrobatic crap on us._ And with that, he pulled Heather into the hallway.

The brown dirt floor was reassuring--it was a nice change of pace from the unsettling red of the previous area--but it was still pitch-black, and Douglas' flashlight was running out of battery power. It was already starting to flicker. Which was odd, because Douglas had just replaced the battery before they'd left Ashfield, and he'd only been using it for the past half-hour or so.

"Where are we?" Heather asked. She no longer sounded like the terrorized child she that she had a few moments ago; maybe getting out of that room and realizing her freedom had done more for her than Douglas had first thought.

"I don't know," Douglas told her. "I hope it's somewhere with light, because my battery's almost dead."

"I noticed," Heather mumbled.

"Look, up ahead!" he said, pointing. "Light! I think that's moonlight!"

"Cool," Heather said.

"I think we'll be coming up on the outside in a minute."

Sure enough, a few hundred more feet and they came to a rectangular exit. It was shaped like a door and lined with wood, like the entrance to a mineshaft...but once they passed through it and onto what appeared to be a massive garbage heap, Douglas realized that it could not have been in a stranger place.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Herring cursed under his breath, mashing the elevator call button with the heel of his palm, cursing himself for ever coming down here. He'd only come because he'd still been thinking logically; that, if there was a pit up there on the third floor, there might be another access to it somewhere down here. He wondered for a moment, in his panic, if he could take the elevator down any further--maybe a button appears on the inside when he opens it, or something--and meet up with Douglas, somehow. Then they both could escape--or die--together. The idea appealed to him more than staying down here and dying alone, that was for certain.

Just when he was getting ready to go to the stairwell and start trying to dig his way out of the rubble, the call button lit up, and the elevator hummed.

"Booya!" Herring shouted, and threw his fist up in the air in a victory stance. "Boo, YA, baby!"

The elevator doors opened...but it was not at all what he was expecting.

As soon as he saw the red stains on the floor of the elevator, he knew he wasn't going to like what he saw when he looked up. Nevertheless, he _did_ look up at the body sitting in the wheelchair.

It was the body of some kind of soldier--he was still wearing tatters of some black heavy-duty armored vest, and part of what appeared to be a gas mask, or something with a similar purpose. The walls of the elevator were riddled with bullet holes, and dry blood was caked around each one, dried while running from others. The soldier's body, meanwhile, was torn severely at the waist; only a thin strand of some of the soldier's innards held the two pieces together.

"Good God," Herring said, covering his mouth with his fist. "Oh, God...what _is _this?" He backed away from the elevator, tripped over a loose tile, and fell onto his butt. He looked over at the last flickering light fixture, and screamed, "_What the hell is going on here?!"_

Then, as if on cue, the last working ceiling light blinked out. Once, twice, it blinked, and then it stayed out.

Pitch blackness flooded into the hall.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas stared around him, wondering how he and Heather had gotten to this place from beneath Brookhaven. Sure, he supposed it made sense--the place was right behind Brookhaven--but he was pretty sure that they'd dropped much farther below the building than they now appeared to be.

"Where are we?" Heather reiterated, still holding on to Douglas' hand.

"I...I think we're...wait, look up."

The walls of the cavern into which they had emerged rose up for for a long ways--maybe fifty feet--and evened off. He could see his car, just over the top of the ravine, from here.

They were in the bottom of the ravine near Brookhaven, the one that had nearly killed him and Herring when they'd been in the car. And for some reason, various kinds of trash and rubble littered the floor of the chasm.

"Well, I'll be damned," Douglas said out loud.

"What?" Heather asked, intrigued. "Where are we? We're not still...here, are we?"

"Yes," Douglas said. "We're still in Silent Hill. But we're away from that Godforsaken place under Brookhaven. And we're never going back."

"That's good," Heather said, as sincerely as anything she'd ever said. "We have to go somewhere else, anyway."

"What?" he looked down at her. "Where?"

"The Big House."

"The Prison?" Douglas asked. "I thought that place wasn't in operation anymore?"

"Not the prison," she said, correcting him. "The Big House. It's on Monson Street, near the apartments."

"What 'Big House' are you talking about?"

"The Mansion," Heather said, starting to sound frustrated with his repeated questioning. "The place where the Ghost lives."

"Ghost?"

"Yeah," Heather said. "The Ghost. Nobody lives there anymore because of the Ghost. He's a nice guy--I know--but everyone's scared of him, anyway."

"_How _do you know?" Douglas said. "Have you been there?"

"No," Heather said. "I had a dream--a whole _bunch _of dreams--and it said that the thing I need is in the House where the Ghost is."

"What thing do you need?" Douglas said. "Maybe I can help you find it?"

"I already know where it is," she said. "But if you could come with me, that would be good."

"That's fine," Douglas agreed, "but what thing are you looking for?"

"It's a book," Heather said. "The only person in town who owns a copy is the Ghost. Well, he _used _to own it, before he died. But now I need it."

"What do you need it for?"

Heather was silent. Just when Douglas was about to prod her about it again, she spoke up. "Promise not to laugh?"

"Of course I do," he said. "What is it?"

"You remember he was murdered? My dad? His death should never have happened...well, I did some research while I was down there, and I found out something. It's a longshot, but...I learned that he might..." She stopped, looking at him, obviously expecting some negative reaction. "I'm not crazy; I was there when they buried him. But there's something...something I can't tell you about yet...and because of that something, there's a chance that..." Heather hung her head, as if afraid to look him in the eye while she spoke. "How about if I just show you? Then you won't have a reason to think I'm crazy. It'll all make perfect sense if I show you."

Douglas looked at her, the way she was hanging her head like that. He didn't like where this was going. "What are you saying? You're not going to hurt yourself, are you?"

"No!" she said, almost vehemently. "Let me just put it this way--what would you say if I told you, there was a chance that my father isn't dead? That he never really died?"

"Heather, that's not healthy," he said, taking her chin and forcing her to look him in the eye. "He's gone, and you and I both know it. I know it's hard, but...don't let yourself think like that. Don't let this town get to you. It only wants to destroy you."

"Why not?" Heather said. "There are ghosts here, there are demons here. Why can't my father be here?"

"I was there when they buried him, too," Douglas said. "He's under the ground, now. Hundreds of miles from here."

Heather sighed, and turned away from him. She stared down into the abyss for a long time...and then she finally met his gaze again. "I suppose you're right...but I have to see for myself."

"What do you mean?"

"I have to try it for myself. I have to look for him," she said, this time without allowing her eye to fall away from his.

"Heather..."

"If there was a chance, even a _shred _of hope for you to find your son somewhere in this town...wouldn't you take it?"

Douglas started to respond to her, and sharply at that, but found that he had no refuting words. He _would _take it, without thinking twice.

"Then you understand," she said. "Look, I'm not crazy. I just want to know the truth. If my father's not really dead, then I want to see him. I want to take him home with me when I leave this town. Please, you have to understand."

"It's alright," Douglas said without hesitation. "I understand. I don't like it...but I understand. But you have to look me in the eye--right _now_--and tell me that you saw those people bury him. That you remember his funeral. That you won't be surprised to learn that he's still dead, still buried under the ground."

Heather looked him in the eye and relayed the promise, almost word-for-word. But Douglas didn't feel any better; he knew she was lying. She was mentally unstable, ready to believe anything. The only way he could ever win her back would be to show her the truth--he would have to help her through this. Help her get what she wanted, help her accomplish what needed to be accomplished in order for her to realize the truth. Only then would she be able to move past this obsession. This _unhealthy _obsession. So, standing there on the edge of that ghostly ravine, he decided that he _would _help her find this book, this book that may lead her to her father once again. He wanted to be there, to be by her side when she saw what she needed to see, to reassure her that it was okay for her to miss him, that it was normal to want him back, just not to _have_ him back. Death was a normal part of life; inevitable, undeniable...and irreversible.

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Herring was stumbling around in the darkness, trying to pull rubble down from the staircase without causing it to collapse inward on him, when he heard a soft mechanical_ din_g.

He thought it sounded like someone using the elevator...and his suspicions were confirmed when he heard movement in the shaft.

But wasn't there already an elevator cab in the shaft? Somebody was comin_g down_, and...oh, forget it. There was no use in trying to figure anythng out anymore. This place was completely screwed-up, by every meaning of the word.

Filled with a sense of alarm, Herring stumbled away from the ruined stairwell and positioned himself against the far wall, drawing his gun. If something was coming to get him, then he would be ready.

But when the elevator doors opened, he could not detect movement with any of his senses. He listened, and kept as still as he could, but could hear nothing. After almost five minutes of stillness had passed, he started to work his way along the wall towards the elevator. Rounding both corners, he finally made it, and stepped into the cab. The light emanating from the buttons was a pleasant change. He pressed "1" and the doors closed. Soon after, he felt the cab rising, and he re-holstered his gun.

When the doors finally opened on the lobby, Herring breathed a heavy sigh of relief...and immediately broke into a spasmatic series of coughs. What was that _smell_?

He realized that his top shirt button was still undone, so he stuck his shirt over his nose to protect it from the smell. He looked to the left and right--to the right, a dead-end hallway with a door on the side, marked "Kitchen," and another hallway branching off towards the stairs and the patient wing; to the left, the hall with the Director's Office and the exit. He turned to the left...and then he saw it.

He had completely forgotten about the horrid-smelling corpse that he and Douglas had found on their way into the hospital; now, whatever it was, it stood before him in its full hideous glory, effectively blocking off the hallway. It looked like the gutted body of a frog that has learned how to walk. In fact, Herring realized, it looked sort of like the frog-ish "Chozo Statues" from his favorite Super Nintendo game, _Super Metroid._ Except the chest area--which would look like a rubbery white patch of flesh on a normal frog--had been peeled open like an onion, with tattered rags of flesh floating away from the exposed heart. At the same time that it looked horribly wrong, a visage that no healthy creature could portray, it also seemed like this creature's natural appearance; it looked almost symmetrical, as if what stood before him was the full intent of who- or whatever created it. One could hardly call it "natural," since this was no product of nature, but this was definitely the way it had been intended to look.

The creature growled at Herring, a stomach-wrenching gurgling noise, and fired a stream of dark purple fluid--matching the color of its otherworldly flesh--towards him. Thankfully, the range between them was too great and the liquid spattered (not quite harmlessly) onto the tile, where it began to eat a hole about two inches deep into the floor. Had it been closer, Herring would likely have been killed, as he was far too stunned by the sensory overload this creature presented to react to its offense.

However, seeing the effect the thing had on the tile was enough to snap Herring out of his shock; he unholstered his revolver and pointed it at the thing. It dropped onto its forelegs, resembling a demonic frog even more than before, and leapt towards Herring. He cried out in surprise and shot twice, missing the frog on both occassions, and the creature's slimy "forepaws" smacked into his chest, knocking the wind out of him...and causing his hands to temporarily lax. His gun flew out of his hand and landed next to the door at the far end of the hall, marked "Kitchen."

"No!" Herring shouted, kicking at the thing's belly with his left leg and his right knee--his right shin was pinned under his thigh by the weight of the thing, because of the way he'd been positioned during the impact--and immediately felt his entire body becoming very, very hot.

The skin was acidic. Not as strong as the spit, but it was still going to burn him alive.

"_Fuck...you!_" he tried to shout, out of breath, and managed to push himself up onto his left knee, meeting the creature halfway. He put his entire body weight into it, knowing that he was going to get some serious acid burn for this little feat, yet also knowing that he would die if he didn't act now. The creature's upper body rose to level with his face, and it reared back, poised to spit. He headbutted it with the top of his head, simulatenously pushing with all of his body weight, and thank God in Heaven, the damnable thing lurched backward a step. This gave Herring enough time to rebound away from the creature; with precious few seconds to waste, he turned and fled . It leapt after him, scraping the ceiling, and landed just in front of him as he leaned down to pick up his gun. The thing's front fin landed on his outstretched hand, just centimeters from his gun. He cried out, feeling the searing pain of the acid biting into his hand, and with his free hand he snatched his gun up, thanking God that he used a single-action, and shot the thing in its heart six times, emptying his revolver.

"Hah!" Herring said, whipping his hand out from beneath the thing's webbed foot, and backed away from it. It screamed, squabbled, spit another load of acidic goo onto the floor and missed again by several inches, and then began to deflate. Beneath it, a greenish-purple fluid was starting to pool on the multi-color tiles. "Bastard," Herring shouted, and spat on the thing's corpse. "_Stay _dead this time, will you?"

Herring turned and ran towards the door, not turning his head away from the creature until he rounded the corner towards the front exit, clutching his wounded left hand against his chest. He looked down and realized that several small holes had been burned into his shirt by the acid; beneath those were equally-sized rash marks on his skin, red and swollen. Acid burns. Damn, they hurt.

Now, all he had to do was find Douglas before Green Coat Man did, and before _he _passed out.

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Before long, Douglas and Heather found a portion of the wall that would make for easy climbing; footholds were conveniently placed every few inches up the side, making for very little chance of slipping. Douglas went first, and Heather came up after him, following his steps. Douglas was the first to reach the top.

"Come on, kid," Douglas called down to Heather, who was a few feet beneath the top of the ravine. "Just a little farther!"

Heather looked down to check her foothold, then looked up for purchase. She grabbed onto a protruding rock and pulled herself up to the next foothold. Douglas had time to marvel at how well she had adjusted to a lack of depth perception; it must have been a difficult and frightening experience to climb a ravine with only one eye. The hole on the left side of her face continued to unnerve him; at the very least, they should try to find a patch for the thing, to make sure nothing got inside and got infected. Of course, the Hospital would be the _last _place they would go for something like that, at least in this town.

Right as Heather reached up to grab the edge of the cliff, her foothold gave way and she almost dropped down to the bottom. She might have been hurt, possibly killed, if she had fallen.

"Heather!" Douglas hollered, leaning over the edge. "Grab my hand!"

"I can't!" she insisted, her free hand dangling down behind her. Douglas wasn't surprised; she was probably very weak from her stay beneath Brookhaven.

"Hold on, then," he said, and turned so that he was sitting on the edge of the ravine. He slid carefully down to where she was hanging, and he put his hand over hers. "Now, let go of the rock and take my hand," he told her.

"Can you hold me?" she said.

"Yeah," he lied. He didn't know for certain that he could, so it wasn't technically a lie, but he didn't know for sure that he _could,_ either. He was getting on in years; he wasn't Rambo anymore, if he ever had been. Even so, he thought he might be able to lift her, since she probably didn't weigh as much as she had the last time they'd met. He took a moment to be shocked that Heather would be 20 years old, later this year.

Heather used her feet to try to hold on to the side of the wall, and she let go of the rock with her hand, pushing with her feet to propel her into the air long enough to grab Douglas' hand. She got it, but Douglas almost lost her because her hand was much smaller than he had expected. He held on to her hand, afraid to grip tighter for fear of breaking it, but he was afraid of loosening his grip in case she slipped free. He pulled himself up to the top of the cliff, back into a sitting position, and from there he used both hands to hoist Heather up over the top. She climbed out and dropped onto the grass beside him.

"Will you look at that," he said, staring down into the foggy ravine. "Can't even see the bottom from here. If we hadn't been there, you wouldn't know any better that there was something down there."

"There isn't," Heather said. "Not anymore."

Douglas thought about asking her about that blood-chilling comment and the implications of what would have happened, had she fallen back down into the ravine, and decided against it. He needed as much of his nerve as he could hold on to.

"You still haven't bought a new car," Heather remarked. If her voice hadn't been so dead and emotionless, he would have mistaken her words for a joke.

"Nope," he confirmed. "Same old scrap heap I've been driving for sixteen years. With luck, the same old scrap heap I'll be driving for another sixteen years."

"Can we go to the Mansion, now?" Heather asked. "I want to hurry up and get this over with."

"Sure, I guess," Douglas said. "But before we go there, I want to get you cleaned up. You look _terrible._"

"Yeah," she said, standing next to the passenger-side door. "I guess I do."

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They took Nathan Avenue around the lake, heading for the Resort district. Douglas wasn't going to be able to drive anywhere in the South Vale area--the crevice from which they'd climbed to escape Brookhaven effectively sealed auto travel to and from that area, despite the fact that that was how he and Herring had gotten to town.

"Herring," Douglas mumbled. "I hope he's okay."

"Where is he?" Heather asked.

"Last I saw him, right before I went down to find you, he was in Brookhaven. Maybe he's still there."

"Why don't you go back after him?"

"I don't want you going anywhere near Brookhaven, ever again. And I don't want to leave you alone either. I don't trust this town."

"What about Herring, then? He's alone."

"Herring's a veteran. He can take care of himself for awhile--we'll be back around this part of town shortly. Besides, I don't think we'd find him right now if we looked."

"Why not?"

"Because, if this town doesn't want us to get something done, we won't get it done. Simple as that. We're playing by a different set of rules, now."

Heather didn't respond. She just looked out the window, over the lake. A thick fog blanketed the lake for as far as the eye could see; even the normally easy-to-spot lighthouse beacon had been engulfed by the fog.

"I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner," Douglas said. "Maybe if I had, I'd have been able to...well, you know, save your eye."

"No," Heather mumbled. "Don't worry about it. That was the first thing he took."

Douglas was disturbed by that comment--the _first_ thing? What else?--but then he decided not to. Maybe she would want to carry some of those secrets to her grave with her. It wasn't healthy, but neither was forcing her to talk about things she wasn't ready to talk about.

They passed a grove of trees on the western edge of the road that appeared to have been completely crushed from above, as the ground had been pressed about six feet down into the earth in the shape of a giant awkward oval and all of the trees were completely splintered, flattened. Leaves coated the ground like tiny green haystacks with no cows to feed on them.

"Weird," he said, and shrugged it off.

Heather didn't say anything else.

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In the resort district, they stopped at the first building they came to--the Lakeview Hotel. Douglas parked on the grass, right next to the front door; he didn't figure there would be anyone here to care if he did.

Lakeview was a sight in itself; a large green building similar in shape (at least, judging from this viewpoint) to a barn, and the name of which was unmistakable due to the large sign reading _Lakeview Hotel_, directly over the brown double-door entrance. Off to the south side of the hotel, a clear view of the lake captured passersby's attention in the strangest of ways--with fog. The lack of visibility created an illusion of grandiosity, as if the lake were not just a lake but a whole ocean, ready to captivate and spirit away anyone daring enough to get too close.

"Here," Douglas said, shaking off the grim premonition the lake offered. "We can clean you up and get you some clothes in there." He motioned to the building.

Heather didn't say anything, but she followed Douglas out of the car. He opened the lobby door for her, and she went in first. Following her inside, Douglas realized that he should probably have preceded _her _inside, since he had a gun and could neutralize any minor threat that may have been waiting inside. But what was done, was done, so he put it out of his mind.

"Let's check some of the upstairs rooms," he said. "They'll probably have clothes in them. The long-term guest rooms usually have a decent selection."

"How do you know?" Heather asked him half-heartedly.

"I've stayed at hotels and motels for a long time before," he said. "Remember, I have an independent practice."

Heather shrugged weakly.

The lobby was very large; lined up with the front door, about ten feet into the room, was a seven-foot-tall device that might be a grandfather clock, or perhaps some other object of historical value to the hotel. Directly behind the device was a three-person-wide staircase, which lead to the second floor overlook. To the left of the staircase was the reception desk (empty, of course), and to the right was a small sitting area, with a few well-cushioned chairs and a little coffee table, with magazines to boot. Behind and to either side of the stairs were two large doors, each a double, and both of which lead into the rear lobby. Douglas followed Heather up the main staircase toward the upper floors. At the top, Heather made a left, toward the east wing.

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After searching all the rooms in the east wing, they finally found one with some clothes that would fit Heather in 212. She picked out the first things she found--a black tanktop shirt and a pair of denim shorts (but not the too-small kind; there was a pair of those, but Heather had always hated crap like that, if guys wanted to see her ass that bad they would at _least _have to buy her dinner first and, oh, she didn't know, give her a single good reason to show it to them). Douglas stayed in the bedroom area, to soothe his paranoia and to allow Heather privacy while she changed her clothes and washed herself off. When she came out a few minutes later, she had a patch around the hole where her left eye should've been, and she was holding her left arm.

"I found the patch in the top drawer, in the bathroom," she said. "I don't know what it was doing there."

"It's probably better that you did," Douglas told her. "You wouldn't want that to get infected."

"Yeah," she said. "Can we go to the Mansion now? I don't want to be here."

"Yeah, sure," Douglas said. "I don't want to be here, either. Let's hit the road."

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Herring stumbled down the sidewalk, still clutching his burned hand to his chest. His only hope was to make it to the car, and that Douglas found his way back. If he didn't make it, or if Douglas didn't come back, then the future was going to look pretty damn bleak for Herring.

When he reached the fence that marked the edge of the bowling alley, he nearly keeled over and passed out. Black spots swam in and out of his vision; he was pretty sure that the frog-thing back there had poisoned him, probably with its acid. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn that the stuff was venomous, as well as acidic. Just his luck.

He pulled himself to his feet, still clutching the fence, and felt his chest tighten up. He wasn't going to last much longer without some kind of medicine, some kind of antidote. The poison was spreading quickly, working even faster. Maybe Douglas had something in his first aid kit that might help. That thought was what kept him going; the thought that he was probably only a few minutes away from survival. If he had known what he was going to find when he got to the site where Douglas' car had been parked, then he might have just given up right there, and boy-howdy would things have turned out different.

He tripped over something, fell to his knees, and felt darkness swimming in his eyes again. He shook his head, bit his bottom lip--_hard_--and cried out. It hurt, but it was enough to keep him conscious for awhile longer. He turned behind him to see what he'd tripped over, and realized that nothing was there. He'd tripped over his own feet.

_This is bad,_ he thought. _Oh, well. At least it can't get any worse._

However, as it usually does when people make such an exclamation (even only in their minds), it _was_ about to get worse. He couldn't see the tall figure, sillouhetted against the fog by the faintest tinge of moonlight, that was approaching from behind. At the moment, it stood at the very corner of Carroll and Nathan, across the street from the bowling alley. And it was closing in quickly, green coat flapping in the wind.

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Douglas unlocked Heather's door from the inside, then started the car. Heather climbed in and fastened her seatbelt.

"Where's this mansion, again?" Douglas asked her, motioning to the glovebox on her side. "Hand me the map, will you? It's in there."

Obliging his request, Heather responded. "It's right here," she said, pointing to Monson street on the map, about halfway down the first block off of Nathan Avenue.

"You're sure?" Douglas said. "Because we're going to have to travel on foot to get there, and somebody was following Herring around South Vale earlier. I don't want to take a chance of encountering him unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Yes, I'm sure," she said. She passed the map to Douglas, folded her arms in her lap and stared straight ahead, out the window, seeming eerily content.

"Then, I guess that's where we're going," Douglas said, and put his foot on the pedal.

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"Shit, shit, _shit!_"

Herring staggered to the spot where the tire-marks lead away from the ravine, indicating that Douglas had left without him. Herring knew Douglas; the detective wouldn't have left without him unless he'd been given good reason to think Herring was dead. So he must've seen something awful down there, in that pit. Unless the other, more frustrating possibility occurred--that this town was screwing with him again, that the car was really right here next to him, just in a parallel perception of reality.

But the tire tracks indicated that Douglas had been able to reach the car and take off...so Herring was starting to wish he'd followed him down into the pit. Then maybe they would've been able to leave together. But now, unless something so crazy, so lucky that only God himself could have orchestrated the events occurred, Herring knew he was probably going to die.

But he wasn't entirely certain until he turned around and saw the Green Coat Man standing at the end of the sidewalk, just outside of the fog's visibility restriction.

"_I warned you,_" Green Coat Man said, and started towards Herring, furiously brandishing some long object in one hand.

"Oh, no," Herring whispered, grasping for his gun. He finally found it, but he almost blacked out again and it fell out of his hand. He bit his tongue, rushing with so much adrenaline he thought he was going to faint from terrified excitement, and leaned over to pick it up--he was already on his knees, so it wasn't far to go. He raised it, pulled the trigger...and heard the dry _click_ of the empty chamber.

Forgot to reload after shooting the damned frog-thing.

"Damn it," he said, and then the Green Coat Man was ten feet away, and Herring could see what object he was holding: a long, recently-sharpened broadsword.

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Just like that, they were going around Toluca Lake again. This time, the flattened grove of trees was on Douglas' right, and he had to be careful to keep his eye on the road while trying to look out of the passengers' side window. The trees were still there. He didn't know why, but that comforted him; in this place, reality was so damn shifty that you couldn't even trust your own experience to get you from one place to the next and back.

Heather just stared out the window, apparently uninterested in anything. Douglas wondered what she was planning to do with herself, after her business here was resolved. She didn't seem to have any other goals in life, except to resolve this thing with her father. He still couldn't get his head around the crap that had happened after their last ordeal here; he didn't want to have to put up with that himself--or to watch _her_ put up with it--again.

"So, what are your plans?" he asked her, intending to start idle conversation.

"I don't know," she answered.

"You must have _something _in mind," he said. "You're almost twenty, for God's sake. I understand you've gone through a lot these past few years, but...sooner or later, you've got to pick up the pieces and just...start over. Get back on track. You know?"

He didn't know it, and never would for the rest of the time they were together, but that comment alone put more distance between Douglas and Heather than any other comment he'd ever made to her, or ever would.

"I guess so," she said, uninterested, and continued to stare out the window.

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Herring felt around in his pockets for the spare loaders Douglas had given to him--he was going to really regret dying, in the event that he didn't even get to fire off a single extra loader--and finally found them, in his left pants pocket. He couldn't remember if he'd put them there originally or if he'd moved them, but right now he wasn't really concerned with that, anyway--he flipped open his revolver, slapped on a loader, spun it, pulled it off, and closed the gun. Then he opened fire on Green Coat Man.

Green Coat Man was stunned, but the bullets didn't even seem to penetrate him. He flinched a bit with each hit, but he kept coming. The sixth shot was just as useless as the first. Herring reached for the second loader, scrambling backwards even as Green Coat Man swung the sword. Too bad he wasn't stupid, like the movie villains; a movie villain would have just angrily swung in any direction, and Herring could probably have easily avoided a hit from the sword by rolling in either direction. But this wasn't a movie, so the sword pierced his left shoulder on the first try, despite Herring's evasive efforts. Herring howled in agony, feeling the tendons sever, feeling the metal scrape his bone.

_Just make it quick, _he pleaded with God. _Just make it be over quick._

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"Holy crap, that's _Herring!" _Douglas veered off of the road towards the scuffle on the grass near the sidewalk, right next to the bowling alley. If he'd been closer upon seeing them, he might have tried to ram the Green Coat Man, but as things stood, he held the wheel with one hand and took his gun with the other. He hammered the brake pedal, and when the car jerked to a stop less than ten feet from where the scuffle was taking place--intending to keep the scuffle from turning into a murder--he got out and aimed at the Green Coat Man. "_Drop it!"_

"Doug!" Herring shouted, spitting out blood.

Green Coat Man ignored him, continuing to press the sword into Herring's shoulder. Herring screamed.

"_Drop the sword and back off!_" Douglas ordered. "So help me God, I'll shoot you down right here."

Green Coat Man was trembling with effort; the sword was into Herring's shoulder almost to the hilt. Douglas was disgusted to realize that he could see the blade coming out the other side of Herring's shoulder and sticking into the grass. Douglas was panicking; he didn't know what he could do to improve this situation. Green Coat Man didn't even seem to notice him.

Then, Green Coat Man did something that made Douglas cringe (and he wasn't even the one with the sword in his arm)--he twisted the sword. Herring screamed again, writhing in agony.

"Herring!" Douglas shouted, panicking.

"_Stop it!"_ a voice commanded from behind him, and Douglas backed up a bit, so he could turn around without letting Green Coat Man get close enough to take his gun.

"Heather, get back in the car!" Douglas said. At the mention of her name, Green Coat Man looked up.

"What's _she _doing here?!" Green Coat Man said, pulling the sword out of Herring's shoulder. Herring wailed, his good hand hovering over his bad shoulder, afraid to touch it but obviously wanting to.

"Heather, please," Douglas said, more afraid now than ever--it seemed as if Green Coat Man had something against Heather, as well. He didn't want the guy to come after Heather--he was having enough trouble keeping Herring in one piece.

"James, stop it right now!" Heather said, jumping out of the car. "He doesn't know anything! Neither does he!" She pointed to Douglas.

"You two know each other?" Douglas said.

"You lost me," Herring said, his voice cracked. He tried to move, and cursed loudly when his shoulder brushed the edge of the sidewalk. He seemed to deem it safer to remain in his current position, despite the looming madman who now stood over him, ready to use the painful instrument clasped tightly in his hands.

"That's James," Heather said to Douglas. "He's crazy. He's one of the guys who put me down there." She was trembling now, but Douglas could see some other strong emotion behind her fear--rage. While he was glad to see _some _aspect of the old Heather, he wondered why it had to be _this _one.

"_I'm _crazy?" Green Coat Man--James--said. "_You're _the crazy one. That's why you had to be locked up."

"_You _did that to her?" Douglas said, pointing the gun at James. "You're sick."

"Hey, don't blame me for what happened," James said. "I only put her there. Laurence was supposed to kill her, and that was supposed to be the end of it. But that madman decided to keep her for..._other _purposes. He's done it before. You saw his tools, right? Blame him, not me. I don't have a say over what he does."

"He's dead," Douglas said. "And anyone who would put another person in the hands of a menace like him deserves to die, as well." He met James' dark eyes.

"Fools," James spat. "That's what you are. You're idiots. All of you. Laurence, too. If he'd just killed her, then this would be over, all of you would be sleeping peacefully in your beds, at home with your loved ones. It's all _her _fault! She called you here!" He pointed to Heather.

"Why don't _you _go die?" Heather said. "You're the one going around killing innocent people!" She flipped her head towards Herring.

"It's for a good cause," James said, with a smirk on his face. "You abuse your power just as much, if not more, than I have."

"So you admit that you abuse your power," Heather said. "That works."

"I'll kill you now," he said, and raised the sword, starting towards her. But a bullet from Douglas' gun took the sword away from him, and caused him to recoil. The sword clattered harmlessly to the ground, several feet behind him.

"Get it, Douglas!" Heather screamed. "Get it! He's helpless without his little weapons! He's too cowardly to get up and kill you with his bare hands!"

"I'm _not a murderer!_" James screamed.

"Tell that to your wife!"

James' eyes grew wide. His hands slowly, slowly came down from above his head, where they had been holding the sword before it'd been blown away, and they came to rest over his heart. He was clutching the hand that had once held the sword with his other hand; a sign of pain, perhaps? Douglas hoped so. That would be one thing he learned from this confusing exchange--how to hurt this walking looney bin.

"Yeah, you don't like to hear the truth, do you? Never did. That's why you came here in the first place." Heather continued to taunt him, turning to Douglas. "This guy...he did his wife, suffocated her with a pillow. He killed her _with his own two hands_, watched her die."

Much to Douglas' surprise, James actually appeared to be _crying. _"You don't understand _anything,_" he said, in a voice barely above a whisper, as a tear slid down his cheek. "I made a greivous mistake. I don't want you to make the same mistake. I suppose, if _you _were the only ones who would be hurt by what you're planning, then I'd let you go about your business. But there's more at stake here than you can ever understand. Leave now, or I'll have to cut you down."

"If you're gonna kill me," Heather said, "just go ahead and do it. If you really can stop me from getting that book, then I've got no more reason to live, anyway."

Next, James did something even more perplexing: He _smiled. _"You have no idea. That was the same thing I thought. But look at me now."

"Do I have to?"

"You can joke all you want, you brat, but the bottom line is this. You don't even know the half of it. But by the time you're done here...unless you turn back...by the time you're done in this place, you'll know more...more than you could ever want to know, had you gone on to live your life without crossing the boundary. Once you cross, you can't turn back. You never realize the gravity of a decision until you've made it."

"Get lost," Heather said, and waved him away. "Come on, Douglas. Let's get out of here."

Douglas was more than shocked at Heather's sudden change in attitude; he understood that it was a front--that she was more terrified of James than himself or even Herring--but even so, the ferocity of her remarks was frightening. She seemed to be playing on James' fears, trying to scare him away, going on the emotional offensive.

"Ditch this loser!" Heather insisted. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. He's just pissed because his wife won't forgive him for killing her."

James recoiled, as if struck. "Oh, you'll see. You'll see, you little brat. Soon. All of you. For helping her...if you help her, you're _damned,_ you hear me?_"_

Douglas helped Herring to his feet, hoping that Heather could keep James' attention long enough for him to get Herring to the car. Herring started to cry out, but Douglas covered his mouth before he could.

"Yeah, yeah," Heather said. "Just get lost, freak."

James just smiled, shook his head, and turned away. "We'll see. We'll see who gets lost. Won't we? Yes, we will." His absurdly clean golden hair danced in the night breeze as he walked down the sidewalk, not even stopping to pick up the sword he'd dropped.

The three of them stood there in the night like that, not sure how to react.

"That guy," Herring said, pausing to spit out a wad of blood, "is disturbed."

"Tell me about it," Heather said angrily.

"What was that about, Heather?" Douglas asked, helping Herring to his feet. He had to get under Herring's good shoulder to avoid detaching the bad one completely--they were going to have to see a hospital to save that arm.

"You heard," Heather said. "That's the nut that put me in that room...down there. Under the hospital."

"But _how?_"

"I don't know," Heather said, exasperated. "Look, I don't know any more about this place than you do, except that every now and then, somebody comes here with some kind of guilty secret, and this place...this place makes it real."

"Makes their secrets real?"

"Makes their _fears _real," Heather amended. "Makes their _regrets _real. But not like, makes them happen. It makes them into physical _things_--regret, despair, delusion. That guy, James...he was delusional. I don't know what exactly happened to him, but it wasn't good. He heard I wanted to get ahold of a book called 'Crimson Ceremony,' and he flipped out, had Laurence put me away down there. Like he said, he was supposed to kill me, but...he didn't."

"What's so bad about this Crimson Ceremony?" Herring asked, recalling that "James" had said something similar to him on his last trip into town, near the wall of crushed vehicles.

"I don't know," Heather said. "I've never read it before. But supposedly, there's something in that book that can help me find my dad. Some kind of spell, or directions, or something, I don't know. But if my dad's there..."

"Heather," Douglas said. "That's a pretty unrealistic expectation."

"Can you blame me? Look at this place!" She motioned to the foggy terrain around her. "I believe anything's possible, here. Why wouldn't there at least be a _chance _that my dad's here, somewhere? Waiting for me?"

"I just don't want you to set yourself up for a bigger disappointment than you can handle," Douglas said.

"What?" she said. "You're worried I'm going to slip back into my old habits?"

Douglas didn't respond.

"Don't worry about me," she said. "I'll be fine. Just let me do this. If only...if only I could see him, even just one more time...even just to say goodbye..."

"I'm in this with you," Douglas said, "and I always was. But all I ask is that you ready yourself for the very real possibility that this isn't going to happen. People don't come back from the dead."

"I don't care. The things I've seen here are what give me hope. I just want...to be with my dad. If there's even a chance of that--"

"Heather--" Douglas tried to interject.

"Don't talk to me," she said, and closed the door to the car.

Herring slowly stood up, looking at Douglas with wide eyes. "What's going on here, Doug?"

"I still don't know," Douglas said. "Look...let's just do what we're gonna do, and get out of here. Heather...she's worse off than I thought. She's delusional. She really thinks that this book is going to bring her dad back."

"Doug, you don't have to--"

"I have to help her," he said. "I'm all she's got left. Me and her dad, and he's dead. Didn't you hear what she said? She wants to be with him. There are only two things that can mean, and neither of them are good. Neither of them are healthy."

Herring was silent.

"I have to go with her," Douglas continued. "I have to be there when she finds out that this isn't going to happen. Otherwise...I think she'll lose it."

Herring clutched his stomach, leaning onto the rear passenger door.

"You gonna be okay?" Douglas said. "You don't look so hot."

"Look," Herring said. "I just got stabbed in the shoulder with a broadsword, and somehow I'm still alive. Sure, it hurts like hell, and sure, the poison from that damn frog-thing is making me want to puke my guts out, but I'm doing...I'm doing...just..." He leaned over (on his bad shoulder, nonetheless) and vomited some unsanitary brown fluid.

"Jesus!" Douglas said. "You were poisioned? What frog-thing?"

"You still got that first-aid kit?" Herring said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"Yeah, let me get it!"

"Good," Herring said. "I'm gonna need...like, everything in it."

Douglas popped the trunk with his key, took out a first aid kit, closed the trunk, and set the kit on it. He opened it and produced a vial of something, and a needle and syringe. "Would you happen to know what chemical was used to poison you?"

"No," Herring said. He'd just realized that his voice was starting to slur; the poison was already starting to work on his brain. If he didn't get an antidote soon, then he was going to sustain permanent brain damage. "Look, juss...gimme whatevvver you got. What happens...happens, okay?"

"I'm going as fast as I can, but if I give you everything, you'll die from overdose. Now give me your arm." Herring tried to oblige but couldn't, so Douglas took his arm, rolled up the sleeve, and stuck the needle and syringe into his upper arm. He made sure to inject every bit of the makeshift antidote. "This had better work. If not, you're gonna be in a lot of trouble."

"If not, I'm gonna die," Herring said. "Just...say it, man."

"We won't know for about thirty minutes," Douglas said. "So let's get you in the car, fix up your arm, and get to where we're going."

"Sounds...like...a plan," Herring agreed.

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Nobody said much of anything for the rest of the trip, save for Herring's incoherent mutterings (most of which had to do with cookies, pie, or junk food of some other sort--it seemed as though Herring did indeed have a secret sweet tooth, despite the popular belief back at the Ashfield PD). Heather and Douglas were completely silent.

Miraculously, the crack from which Douglas and Heather had emerged seemed to have completely disappeared, so the drive to Monson Street was mostly unobstructed. There was a small but nonetheless troublesome tree haphazardly placed in the middle of the road, but Douglas got out and removed it without much trouble. Before long, on the right side of the road, they passed by the hotel that Heather and Douglas had stayed at the last time they'd been here together--Jack's Inn, an interesting pun if there ever was one--and, turning right at the corner from there, came to a large mansion separated from the street by a long, white brick wall that ran almost the full length of the block.

"That's it," Heather said with sudden excitement (but still no smile), pointing towards a door along the wall. "That's how you get in."

"Okay, but I think we should at least wait until Herring cools off a bit. He's still not in good shape, but I think the antidote's working."

"Yeah," Herring said. "I'm feeling a bit better, actually. But I still think I'm gonna pass out if I stand up." He coughed. "Don't worry, just drainage. Listen, I'll be fine in here. You guys just go on in without me--I'll catch up with you in a little while."

"That's not a good idea," Douglas said. "I don't know what we'll find in there. If it's anything like what happened in Brookhaven, we might not be able to get back to you, and vice versa."

"Fine, then," Herring said. "Just go ahead, and I won't catch up. I'll wait here for you."

"Last time, a giant poisonous toad attacked you. You won't be able to fight something like that off with one good arm."

"Well, I'm just gonna slow you guys down if I go in there with my arm hanging by a couple of threads, even if it is bandaged," he said. "You have to admit _that _much. Come on, Doug. I'll be fine. You know me, I'm no quitter."

Douglas glared at Herring. "Fine, but you watch yourself. Don't go and get killed on me, like you almost did back there."

"Go, go, go!" Herring said, waving Douglas away. "I'll be fine! I've still got some ammo left, and I can reload in the car, right now, in case something happens."

"Ammo doesn't work on that James guy--"

"Nothing works on that James guy," Herring said. "If he decides he wants you dead, you're dead, and that's it. Just go. What happens, happens. Just be confident in me for once, okay?"

Douglas growled. "Fine. I'll be back."

"I know," Herring said, and grinned.

Douglas shut the driver's side door, and Herring glanced at Heather...only to realize that she must've gotten out at some earlier point during the conversation; she was already at the door on the brick wall, looking at Douglas, beckoning.

Herring checked his revolver and his ammo, and made sure to load the gun to its maximum of six rounds--a considerable task with only one good arm. He would have to make sure to keep count in his head in the event that he had to shoot it. If Green Coat Man came back, he was going to go down swinging...but in the event that his death was to be a painful one, he wanted to save a bullet for himself. Not that he was the suicidal type, but rather, he figured that God would understand if he killed himself to avoid a painful death.

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The door was not locked, so Heather got through the security wall without much trouble and Douglas followed without hesitation. The site beyond the wall was one that Douglas wished he hadn't seen.

There was no garden to speak of, really, but rather a small porch area leading into the house. Not even a driveway, at least on this side of the house (the presence of one here would have been silly, anyway, considering that there would be no way to get the car in or out through the wall). A body was splayed on the ground in the very center of the porch area, with dried blood smeared all around it. It was a younger man, perhaps 18 or so, certainly no older than Heather. He wore a brown jacket and dark jeans. The body seemed unfamiliar to Douglas, but it seemed to strike somewhere deep inside of Heather. She knelt over him and looked him over, as if he were not a murdered body but an interesting specimen of some sort, perhaps an insect.

"It's...it looks just like my dad," Heather said. "It's him, really. I mean, it's not him, not the _real _him, but it's an image. Just a lot younger." She hung her head, seemed about to cry, and then shook her head. "No, it's just James, screwing with my head. I can't let him get to me." She stood up, dusted off her knees, and turned to face the house. "I can't tell you how weird it is to actually be here...I've seen this place in my nightmares, hundreds of times. I just hope my dreams were right."

Douglas didn't seem to notice her speech; he was peering into one of the larger windows, to the left of the door.

"Let's go," she said. "I've got to do this before James decides to stick his nose in my business again."

"That's a good motive," he said, and joined her at the front door. When she saw that he was beside her, she gathered her courage, sighed, and lifted her finger to the doorbell.

"Here goes nothing," she said, and pressed the button.

_Ding-ding-ding-ding...ding-ding-ding-ding...ding-ding-ding-ding...ding-ding-ding-ding..._

Eerie, Douglas thought. It shouldn't be--that was the same melody used at a lot of the older schools in the area, so it only made sense for a place as old as this to have a similar melody--but all the same, it was. Too inviting to be a place from a nightmare. Douglas refused to let his guard down this time, as he had done before, in the hospital.

No answer.

"Excuse me," Heather said. "My name is Heather. I heard that you have a certain book called 'Crimson Ceremony?' I was wondering if, maybe, I could borrow it for a minute?"

Nothing.

Heather looked at Douglas, obviously disheartened, then back at the door. Her only visible eye turned blank, looking past the door at something in her mind. Perhaps she imagined that someone was hearing them, refusing to answer?

"Hello?" Heather said, knocking three times on the door. Then, facing Douglas: "Maybe it really is empty, and there's nobody here?"

The doors--wooden doubles with three diamond-shaped glass panes running down the length of each--creaked open on their dated copper hinges. They sounded like a skeletal finger, beckoning to Heather and Douglas--_Come inside, please, come inside, everything's all right_--and for one moment, Douglas almost felt like backing out. But at the last second, he stifled his complaint and followed Heather inside.

The lobby area--for that was what it was, a spacious place that one might expect to find in a city hall or other such heavily financed establishment--was the most luxurious place Douglas had seen in this small town. The house's owner must have been either an eccentric millionaire who moved here for privacy, or the inheritor of this mansion; the place was almost _too _fancy. Something about it seemed out of place. The floors were freshly polished bronze tile. The walls were of an expensive-looking and smooth wooden finish; a small table sat in the middle of the room, with beautiful white china sitting in an intricately organized design in the center, like some kind of eccentric centerpiece. Over Douglas' and Heather's heads, a fine golden chandelier hung from an even finer gold chain, separating the second floor balcony hallways. Straight ahead of them was a grand wooden door, with fine, narrow glass panels fixated all along the top. To the left of this door, on the adjacent wall, was an arched hallway, and to the right, on the opposite wall, was another wooden door with similar glass paneling.

Douglas let out a long, low whistle. "This guy's got it made."

"I don't remember this from my dream," Heather said. "Sure, it was nice, but...it wasn't _this _nice."

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" Douglas inquired.

"I don't know yet," she said. "Let's just go in. Maybe he's waiting for us."

"Who's waiting?"

"I don't know," she said. "Whoever it is, he has the book I want to see."

Douglas decided to keep an eye out. He didn't trust this guy, whoever it was. If he had a name to go on, then perhaps...but a man without a name, as far as he was concerned, was a man with a secret. And unlike the movies, in real life such secrets were rarely good.

"Wait," Heather said, stopping just in front of the wooden door. "I think...I think we should go this way." She pointed to the left, down the arched hallway. Moments later, she had disappeared down the hall, into almost complete darkness.

"Wait," Douglas called after her, and followed. The hallway wasn't _pitch_ black--there was moonlight sifting in through the windows, all along the north end of the hall--but it was still extremely dark; Douglas almost lost track of Heather before she entered the door at the end of the hall.

This took them into the beginning of another dark hallway, which continued for a ways and then veered to the left. There were two doorways along the left-hand wall, made of sturdy-looking wood, and two more at the end of the hall, one straight ahead and one on the right-hand wall, also of wood. Heather was halfway down this hall when Douglas came in behind her; he was just in time to see her disappear around the corner up ahead, completely ignoring the other doors.

"Heather, wait!" Douglas said, chasing after her. The corner lead into a wider hallway, with two more branching off of it--one smaller hallway, on the left-hand wall, with a door straight ahead of that, and another hallway, all the way at the far end and on the right-hand wall of this larger one, continuing north. Heather had turned down the smaller hallway on the left-hand wall, and Douglas followed. At the end of this short hall was another door, through which Heather was in the process of disappearing.

Through that door was a smaller (but still fairly-sized) room, some kind of storage closet. It was completely free of furniture; in fact, the only things of note were an electrical outlet on the right-hand wall and a window directly above that. Apparently, Heather had found something even more noteworthy: A small round hole, at the very top of the south wall, right underneath the ceiling.

"I can't reach it," she said. "Douglas, can you lift me up?"

Douglas looked up at the hole. "What's so special about that? You're not going to stick your hand in there, are you?"

"Yeah," Heather said. "There's something in there that I need."

"How do you know this?" Douglas asked, leaning over to kneel. "Here, climb on my back."

"Thanks," Heather said, obliging. "And I already told you--I dream about this place a lot."

"I thought you said you had nightmares?"

Heather didn't respond for a moment, feeling around just inside the hole--her arms were fairly long, but even so, from where she stood she was only able to get her hand in up to the wrist.

Douglas bit his lip, trying not to groan underneath her--she wasn't heavy, but she wasn't exactly light as a feather, either, and his back had been giving him more and more problems in recent years. He could only hope it wouldn't choose now, or some other unfortunate point in the near future, to start up again.

"I did have nightmares...but my dreams were a lot different from this place. I mean, the key's still here--" She pulled her hand out of the hole with a long, gold key and a legion of black dust, which had coated her hand completely, in tow. "--but the place is a lot different. So I think we'll be fine."

Douglas wasn't so sure, but he didn't want to voice that out loud. He knew he was being paranoid, but he was afraid that the "Ghost" who lived here would hear him. In fact, he had begun functioning as if he were being watched, in the event that some entity--sinister or not--were actually watching them. "So where does the key go?" He asked her.

"I don't remember," she said. "But I figure, if we root around a bit, we'll find something that's locked, and we can try the key on it."

"I gotta tell you," Douglas said, "I don't like your method of exploration very much."

"Well, suck it up, soldier," Heather said, smiling.

Douglas was genuinely surprised; she'd actually _smiled _at him, for the first time since he'd found her under Brookhaven. Considering that less than half an hour ago, she had basically admitted to the desire to die, she seemed to be unnervingly happy at the moment. Douglas felt like maybe he was missing something, something very important. Maybe, somehow, this mood swing of hers was fitting into all of this, but in a way that he couldn't clearly see yet. Whatever was going on, he hoped that the bad guys would reveal their secret trump card like they always did in the movies, and then Douglas could defeat them and drive away with Heather and Herring into the sunset, with Walter and Henry cuffed together in the back seat--

Walter and Henry! Boy, how far things had come in such a short time...only hours ago, he and Herring had been concerned with finding Henry and Walter more than anything else, and already he'd forgotten about them altogether! He was pretty sure that the two of them would get what was coming to them in this town--they wouldn't escape from here, and so Douglas could report them as dead, or something--but this surety only served to further unnerve him; Henry and Walter were not good people. If a person capable of doing _anything _for his own good couldn't survive in a place like this...what chance did a person like himself, or Herring, stand? A person who would die for someone else?

_Not now,_ he said. _Right now, let's just focus on this Ceremony of Heather's. Finding that book might even bring some of this crazy crap to light, maybe explain some of what's going on here. All the crazy people seem to know what it's about._

"Let's go back to the front area," Heather said. "I think I remember something about finding a lock in the main area, but in the dream I always find the key _after _the lock, and I always wake up before I can use it."

"Let's do that, then," Douglas said. He followed Heather back down the dark hallway, sparing a glance out the window and into the moonlight-stricken evening--

A flash. Somewhere out there in the night. Movement.

"Heather, wait," Douglas said. He remained still, and continued to look out the window.

"What is it?" she asked, impatient. "Somebody there?"

"I don't...I don't know, just wait." He looked. Hard. Remaining perfectly still, so as to be able to detect any sign of movement outside, in the courtyard area.

Nothing.

"Nevermind," he said. "Must be my imagination." Though he knew it wasn't; he just wanted to set Heather at ease so she could focus on the task at hand, and get done before anything went horribly wrong.

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Herring was sitting in the car, on the edge of sleep, when he saw something moving out there. He jerked awake, biting back the urge to scream when he bumped his tattered shoulder on the back seat, and after pulling himself together he looked out the windshield, trying to stay low. He knew it wasn't Heather or Douglas, because they wouldn't have moved that quickly and then hid--they had no need to hide from Herring. He readied his revolver and lay low.

_I know you're out there,_ he said. _You just come up over here, and see which one of us comes out in one piece. Hell, I'm already almost in two pieces, and I'm still gonna kick your ass...I hope..._

He didn't see any movement again for another few minutes, and before he knew it, sleep overcame him, and he was stretched out across the back seat once again.

Then, there was movement from beyond the car.

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After only a few moments of searching, Heather found the lock in the unlikeliest of places--the kitchen, one of the doors right across the hall from the room where they'd found the key. It was a small room set up like a hall, with only four major items--a fancy gas-powered stovetop-oven and a name-brand microwave on the right, and a Whirlpool refrigerator-freezer and a sink on the left. Under the sink was a cabinet, with all sorts of containers and cleaners. All of these things, as well as the silverware and other utensils and minus the household cleaners, were the same shade of white as the china in the lobby.

"Here it is," Heather said with a visible degree of satisfaction. "Weird thing to lock, though."

"You can say that again," Douglas concurred, looking at the fridge. It had been coccooned with several feet of chain links, all of which was wrapped together in the front with a wire, which was in turn sealed with a padlock. Heather produced the gold key from her pocket with a smug expression on her face and stuck it into the padlock. When she turned the key and unlatched the lock, the wire snapped off and flew across the room, bounced off of the top of the stove, and hit Douglas square in the kidney. It did no major damage, but it did startle a shout out of him.

"Sorry," Heather said, with the ghost of a smile.

"No problem," Douglas said. He was still amazed to see her actually smiling, so soon after all of those things had gone wrong in her life. Maybe she'd taken his earlier comment about getting over things to heart?

"Help me with this," Heather said, tugging at the chains. "You get it from that side."

"I've got a better idea," he said, and put his hands on the front and side of the fridge. He then lifted that side of it up and slid the whole thing away from the wall. Then, he stepped behind it and began feeding the chain over to Heather, who piled it neatly in a coil on the counter beside the sink. When they were done, Douglas moved the fridge back and stood in front of it. "You want to open it, or should I?"

"I'm...kind of afraid," Heather said. "Fridges in this town have never been really good to me."

"I don't blame you...whatever kind of people live in this town, they have terrible taste in food." He leaned forward, grasped the handle, and flung the door open, recoiling in the event that something alive should leap out at him.

No such thing happened, of course. Instead, a huge, fresh, delicious-looking leg of lamb was visible inside, next to a huge punch bowl filled with the sweetest-smelling yellow juice that Douglas had ever smelled.

"_Wow,_ that smells good!" Douglas remarked. "I almost want to have some!"

Heather licked her lips, obviously hungry. "It's been so long since I've had a decent meal...I almost want to take that leg and stuff it down my throat. I would, if I didn't think it was likely to turn into something gross while I was eating it...but even so, that _smell_! It's so...enticing!"

Douglas closed his eyes, pushed away all other thoughts, and just breathed in the smell of that delicious food...wow...that smelled awesome. It was almost as if he could smell the effort that had gone into making that food. He could just imagine how it would smell after being warmed up in the microwave...

But then, just briefly enough to leave him wondering if it had actually occurred, he caught a whiff of something far less pleasant. Rotten, almost. He opened his eyes, expecting some kind of dramatic change in the environment and seeing none. Being paranoid, probably.

_But that wasn't my imagination, either,_ Douglas thought. _Something's wrong with this room. This house. We shouldn't be here._

"I...think I want to try just a little bite of that," Heather said, reaching into the fridge.

"No," Douglas said, taking her hand. "Don't."

"What's wrong, Douglas?" she asked, looking at him with concern. Did she not see this? Given, he was a private investigator, so he was trained for suspicious situations...but this seemed so obvious to him, this thing that was so wrong...was he just preternaturally keen, or was she just exceptionally dense? It was almost as if this place held some kind of power over her.

"Just...don't. I'm getting a bad vibe from this place. I think we should conclude our business here, and get out."

The house creaked beneath his feet, and he felt his heart leap into his throat. It took him a moment to realize that he had taken a step backwards, and the ancient floorboards had creaked. That was all. No "Ghost."

Even so, he didn't like it here. Not one bit. That food...he was pretty sure that was supposed to be some kind of trick. Some kind of spell, maybe. It sounded stupid, but it seemed more and more likely, the more he thought about it. The food was there to trick them, of that he was sure.

"Where's this book you're looking for?" Douglas asked. "I thought the key was supposed to help us get to the book."

"No," Heather said. "The key helps us get in here. There should be something in here that's supposed to help us. But all I see in here is food. The Ghost that lives here has the book, I know...but I just want to borrow it." She glanced around the house, as if mentioning the book and the Ghost would cause said Ghost to appear out of thin air. "Do you know that, Mr. Ghost? I only need to borrow it for a little while. I'll even bring it back when I'm done."

The lights flickered, and for a split second, the room was pitch-black. There was moonlight coming in from the window over the sink, but in the blink during which the lights were out, his eyes didn't have time to adjust, so they perceived almost complete darkness. Before he knew what had happened, the lights were back on.

"Look!" Heather said, reaching into the fridge. "Here's something!"

"What is it?" Douglas asked, reaching for it. Heather held it away from him, though, and held it up to the light. It was an envelope, with a shape inside.

"Another key," she said. "This one comes with a letter." She opened the envelope, took out the letter and read the words on it--_FOR ATTIC--_and grinned with childish glee. "He's going to let us into the attic! I remember now--that's where the book is! I remember, in my dream I saw the book in the attic. That's where he keeps it."

Douglas sighed, feeling more urgent than ever. If he didn't think he'd be placing Heather in grave danger by doing so, he would have gone outside and waited for her--just being in this house made him feel sick to his stomach, as if it were not an inanimate house but some great sleeping behemoth, just waiting for the right signal to awaken and swallow them whole. It was the same disturbing feeling he'd had about the whole town awhile ago, standing outside the abandoned police station with Herring, before things had gotten really weird. "Where's this attic?" He asked her, vocalizing his tension into a question that reflected his uncertainty and rubbing his chin.

"It's in the back, up the stairs," she said. "Come on, I'll show you."

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Back in the lobby area, Heather opened the grandiose wooden door which, like most of the other doors, had been left unlocked for some reason, and lead Douglas into a spacious living area. There were two roomy couches placed perpendicular to one another atop a delightfully fancy shag carpet in the center of the room; to the left of the couches were several haphazardly strewn armchairs of similar style and color. These furnishings formed a semicircle around a wide coffee-table on which two lone candlesticks stood guard over countless legions of dust. In the back of the room, presiding over all else, was a rustic fireplace, closed-off with a metal plate on which the words _Do not use_ had been spray-painted.

Heather lead Douglas to the left side of the room, towards a door flanked on one side by a small bureau on which a fancy triangular lamp, a photo, and an old globe sat and on the other by a glass cabinet filled with antique dishes. Douglas glanced into the cabinet in passing, and noticed with mild interest that his grandmother had once had a similar collection; he recognized the third plate from the right on the top row as one of grandma's favorites.

On the other side of the door was a smaller room, mostly transitional; up ahead on the left-hand wall was another of those simplistic wooden doors, and directly to Heather's right was an angular staircase that would, presumably, lead to the second floor. She took Douglas' hand and pulled him up the staircase. "Up here," she said, as if her directions needed any clarification.

Halfway up, the stairs became a small platform on which a dainty little shelf stood, then turned at a ninety-degree left angle and continued upward. While the shelf was nothing of real interest, the painting above it was--it was a picture of two oblong faces, one smiling and one laughing. The classic emblem often used to depict the "drama" genre. Even though he'd seen it many times before this, in many other places, he felt threated by the grin in that painting. It seemed threatening, somehow, as if it knew something that he, Douglas, didn't. Simultaneously, the way it blended ceaselessly with the drab surroundings made it seem like just one more of many hidden dangers--ready to pounce, to strike on a moment's notice. Shrugging it off as paranoia, Douglas followed Heather up the stairs, which angled another ninety degrees before continuing up to the second floor.

At the top, the stairs turned left into a hallway, the right-hand wall of which was decorated with generic scenic paintings. Once, on a visit to an art museum, Douglas had overheard some artsy jerk talking about how symbolic the tranquility of the green grass depicted in this one painting was, how deep and reflective the blue sky was, and Douglas had silently deemed the guy an overanalytical jackass. This picture recalled that memory with perfect clarity, giving Douglas a little chuckle.

The end of the hallway turned into another small, square transitional room, this one with plain wooden floor tiles. Another dainty shelf sat in the corner between the far and right-hand walls, next to a door.

"Not that door," Heather said, looking at the door in question. "This one." She approached the door directly across from the hallway in which they stood, took the handle, and pushed it open. She paused, glancing back at Douglas, who was still looking at the painting. "You coming?"

"Oh, yeah," Douglas said, snapping out of his memory-daze. "Sorry." With that said, he rejoined her.

Beyond that door was another drab hallway, with a stale brown motif. Even the wallpaper was bland; brown paper with faint darker-brown diamond-shaped designs covering the entire wall in a tile format. Continuing down the hall, Heather found another door, at the very end of the right-hand wall, across from yet another of those dainty little shelves. Douglas joked to himself that the dainty little tables were spying on him...but for some reason, that only served to further discomfort him. He quickly caught up to Heather.

The next room was some sort of balcony, overlooking the first floor lobby. Douglas and Heather were almost eye-level with the top of the gold chandelier, and looking down made Douglas' stomach turn. He wasn't afraid of heights, but...he could all too easily imagine being pushed down there. Why or how he kept having these unpleasant ideas here and there remained a mystery to Douglas; he only knew that he wanted to finish up here as quickly as possible. This place was really creeping him out.

The balcony hall continued across the lobby area and ended at yet another door, on the same wall as the building's entrance. It took them through to a _real _balcony, a corridor lined with a beautifully curtained window that afforded them what would normally have been considered a tranquil view of the mansion's landscape. However, the body which could be seen from here, lying on the ground in the porch area, detracted quite a bit from the tranquility. Douglas found himself wishing he hadn't looked out the window in the first place--as Heather had noted on the way in, that body looked eerily like Harry Mason.

Douglas followed Heather to the end of the corridor, which hooked sharply to the left and past three more doors, all the while getting darker--the moonlight outside was largely filtered by the thick curtains over the edges of the window, so that even the light reflecting off of the green carpet's thick gold trim was not enough to illuminate their passage. By the time Heather and Douglas reached the end of the hallway, it was almost too dark to see.

Heather came to an area which seemed at first like a dead-end, but then she realized that the hallway took a very short left turn and then an immediate right turn, serving to further disorient both her and her detective companion. But at last, they worked their way to the end of the corridor, where another drab-looking wooden door stood before them.

Sighing, Heather turned to Douglas in the near-blackness. "This is it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The attic's through this door and up the stairs, if my dream was right. This is where we'll find the book."

Douglas took her shoulder. "Are you _sure _you want to do this? I mean, now's your chance to back out." He wasn't talking about the book, of course; he was talking about Heather's ultimate goal. The words of that insane blond man had begun to reverbirate in his mind: _Once you cross the boundary, there's no turning back._

"Yes," Heather said. "I'm sure. If you're thinking about turning back, though--"

"No," Douglas said. "We're in this together."

"I know you don't think he's alive," she said. "You don't have to stay with me because you feel bad."

"That's not why I'm here," he insisted.

"Then why?"

"Because I don't want anything to happen to you," he said. "I care about you. I know you might not understand that, or even how much I care, but I do."

Heather didn't respond for a moment; she simply wiped her face with her sleeve--perhaps wiping something off of her chin or nose, or perhaps wiping a tear from her eye--and nodded. "Yeah. Okay. Let's do this, then."

She put her hand on the knob and turned it...but it wouldn't budge.

"Heh," she said. A jingling noise. "Forgot to use the key."

They shared a tension-relieving chuckle, and then she pushed the door open.

The attic, unlike the rest of the house, was pitch-black, completely free of illumination. Douglas turned on his flashlight and passed it up to Heather so she could lead the way, since he couldn't slide past her--the stairwell just inside the door was so narrow that only one of them at a time could fit.

The room widened out at the top of the stairs, becoming about the size of a small storage shed. Shining the light all around, Heather could see various items packed into the back of the room, some on the shelf which ran the full length of the room and some on the floor, piled in random, careless heaps beneath said shelf. To the right of where she and Douglas stood, at the top of the staircase, a small three-candle holder stood sentinel from atop a narrow round table.

Douglas fished around in his pocket for his lighter, found it, and tried to light the candles. The first two lit, but the wick on the third candle, the one on the right, had been burned down too low to suffice.

"Where's this book?" Douglas asked, growing anxious. This place was small and dark, and their only two means of illumination could easily be tampered with--his mind was still hung up on the flashlight, and how it had almost gone out back under Brookhaven...and yet, here it was, operating at full power, as originally expected.

"It's somewhere in here," Heather said, carefully moving towards the back of the room. "In my dream, there was an altar here, or something...something old...wait, wait a second!"

"What?" Douglas said, rushing towards her. She had clipped the flashlight to her chest pocket and begun rummaging around in the junk near the back of the room. "What is it?"

"This is it," she said, reaching her arm deep into the pile of stuff, almost to the shoulder. After rummaging for a moment (and making Douglas nervous as hell; he kept expecting something down in the junk to bite her arm off, or something), she used her other hand to rake a bunch of stuff--mostly books, boxes, and other such mundane items--away from her buried arm, revealing a black curtain covering a portion of the wall, right near the floor. Heather pushed it aside to reveal a large inlay, about the size of a microwave and obviously done without professional help. Inside the slightly jagged inlay were four items: A white china plate, a black wine glass with very intricate desings running up and down the narrow part, a small vial of some white fluid...and a thin red book.

"I'll be damned," Douglas said. There it was, just like Heather had said. How could she have known, though? She'd said she'd dreamt about it, but...why? Had somebody _sent _her that message, somehow? If so, who? Who would want to assist Heather in finding her father? What kind of motive drove a person to feed a young woman's psychotic delusions? For what gain?

Heather seized the red book with both hands and pulled it out of the inlay, blowing the dust off of the cover with one deep breath. In gold calligraphy, the words _Crimson Ceremony _glistened across the cover, reflecting the flashlight's beam in shimmering, dancing waves.

"What's it about?" Douglas said.

"I don't know," Heather said, flipping through the pages. "There are a lot of big words in here...I'm gonna need some time to look this over." She looked around the room, as if expecting something to happen. "Nobody seems to be here...you don't think it would matter if I took this with me, do you?"

Douglas shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't seen anybody yet."

"Ah, what the hell," Heather said. "It probably won't hurt." She slid the book under her arm and started towards the door. "Come on, let's go."

Glancing around the room, Douglas followed her down the stairs and out of the room. Just before he reached the bottom step, he stopped, turning his head back around for one more cursory over-the-shoulder glance...and though he didn't see anything different, he definitely _felt _something. Something that he hadn't felt on the way in. Once again, against his better judgement, he chalked it up to paranoia and left the attic, making sure to close the door behind him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn't until they reached the heavily furnished living area that Douglas realized something funny was going on.

"Heather?" he said, softly placing his hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure this is the way we came in?"

"Yeah," she said, stopping and turning to face him. "Why, what's up?"

Douglas hesitated to answer, glancing around the room, his brow furrowed. "Something's not right. I'm pretty sure we passed through here earlier."

"Of course we did," Heather said, grinning. "On the way in. Remember?"

"No," Douglas said, shaking his head. He turned back the way they'd just come--from the staircase--and opened the door. There was the staircase. Okay, so what was the problem? "Just wait...maybe it's nothing."

"No," Heather said from across the room. "Something's definitely wrong."

"What?" Douglas reached for his gun, weaving around the furniture towards her.

"Look at this," she said, and pointed through the grand wooden door...and into the second floor main hallway. The one that lead to the attic.

"Damn," Douglas said. He took of his cap and wiped his forehead, which had begun to sweat profusely ever since they'd left the attic. "The doors changed."

"No problem," Heather said, despite her shaky voice. "We can just go back down the stairs. Easy as pie."

"I don't think it'll be--" Douglas was cut off, however, because Heather left the room and he had to chase her down. He didn't care what exactly she was planning to do, so long as they stayed together--in a shifty place like this, it would be all too easy to become separated and never meet up again. "Heather, wait!"

"_Damn it_!" she said from up ahead, and Douglas realized why; the door at the end of the green-carpeted hallway should have opened onto the balcony area, overlooking the main lobby, but instead Heather and Douglas found themselves looking into a room they had not yet seen; a bedroom. Wooden floors. Two double-beds, separated by a grandfather clock with little wedges sticking out, presumably on which to set a bedside lamp or a book.

"What is this?" Douglas mumbled. "Teleportation? Or did the rooms really change?"

"This isn't good," Heather stated, ignoring Douglas' question. "This wasn't in my dream."

"What happened after you got the book in the dream?" Douglas asked, stepping into the bedroom ahead of her.

"I never actually got the book in my dream," she said, following him and shutting the door. "Hey, you think the rooms will change again if we shut and open the doors?"

"I don't know," Douglas snapped. He was frantically checking the windows to see if anything had changed outside. It was impossible to tell, since they hadn't previously been on this side of the house--all he could see was dense foliage, rising up past the windows. "Try it if you want."

Heather did so, jerking the door open so quickly that Douglas' hat was almost swept off of his head by the vaccuum. "Nope," she said. "It's the same."

"Damn it!" Douglas stormed out of the room. "Come on. We might just have to improvise."

"What?" Heather rushed after him, trying desparately not to allow a closed door to fall between them. "What do you mean, 'improvise?'"

But Douglas couldn't hear her. He was already at the other end of the hallway, trying every door he came across. The first two wouldn't give even an inch, but the third one broke inward when he leaned against it, before he even turned the knob. "Here, this way!"

Heather dashed after him, eager to see what awaited beyond the door...it wasn't the living room area, as she had hoped, but it _was _the room where they'd found the key in the wall. Heather ran up to the window and looked outside. "I can see the front from here. You think we could get out if we broke the windows?"

"Get back," Douglas said, and Heather screamed. She hadn't noticed that he'd already drawn his gun, so she was startled when he fired at the window. Even more startled when the bullet richoched harmlessly off of the glass and put a small pock-mark in the floor.

"It didn't work?" Heather asked, astonished. She put her hand on the glass and caressed the part that had been shot. Not even a single crack; just a little scuff-mark, as if he'd shot at solid reinforced steel instead of glass. "Are these things bulletproof?"

"I doubt it," Douglas said, grabbing her by the wrist and fleeing the room.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry," he said, closing the door behind him. They were back in the second floor hallway. "I don't know where else to go. None of the other doors work, and this one's a dead end. It seems like the house was just completely rearranged."

"Are there any other staircases we can use?"

"You tell me. You're the one who had the dreams."

"I already told you," Heather said indignantly, "this never happened in my dreams!"

"Let's try the attic room again. We haven't tried that yet."

"Sure, whatever." Heather brushed past him and back into the green-carpeted hallway. She hesitated, disoriented, and then headed left and around the corner. At the end of the hall, she jerked the attic door open without hesitation. Douglas was not far behind.  
"Same thing," she said. "The attic's not changed." Then, a look of disdain fell across her face. "You know what? I think I figured it out."

"What?"

"It's the book," she said, taking _Crimson Ceremony _out from under her arm. "As soon as we took the book, the rooms switched up. I'll bet we can't leave until we put the book back."

Douglas almost said _Well, put it back then!,_ but he bit his tongue. She would sooner stay here and spend the rest of her life trying to find a way out than put that book back. He thought about grabbing her by the shoulders, looking her in the eye, shaking her really hard, and shouting at her that her father was _dead,_ he was _gone,_ he wasn't coming _back,_ and dying for a stupid _book _would be the _dumbest _thing she could do with the remainder of her life. But deep down, he knew that wouldn't help at all, so he bit his rage back, trying to restrain himself. They were so _close _to getting out of here! All they had to do was find the exit, and they were home free. Then Heather could do her thing and resolve her emotional issues, and they could skip town and be done with this.

"Here!" Heather said, standing in front of a door just around the corner from the attic entrance. He raced to her side and eagerly stared into the door.

"It's the second floor balcony hallway," she said.

"So what?" Douglas said. "It's not the entrance. We need to get to the lobby."

"We _can _get to the lobby," Heather said, entering the balcony hall and pointing over the railing. "It's right there."

"No way," he said. "We'll break our necks jumping from this height."

"No we won't," she said. "We can just climb over the railings, drop ourselves as low as possible, and just slide down the wall. We might still get hurt a little bit, but we won't break anything."

"Heather, I don't--"

"You have any better ideas?" Heather asked, hands on her hips. "It's this, or run around in that maze forever. And you know that's not going to get you anywhere."

Douglas looked over the balcony...stared Heather in the eye...looked back over the balcony...she had a point. There didn't seem to be any other way. And he'd almost forgotten about Herring; leaving him in the car even as long as they had was a bad idea. He didn't want to stay gone any more than necessary. "Fine," he said at last. "But I'm going first. Test the waters."

"I can do it!" Heather insisted, pouting.

"You're still weak," he said. "I'll go first, and then you can jump down and I'll catch you."

Heather's face turned red, out of embarassment, contempt, or both Douglas was not sure. He ignored her and climbed over the edge of the railing, making sure to use his feet as hooks so as not to fall, and lowered himself down, bending his knees. When he was low enough, he gripped the tops of the rails with his hands and let his feet go. His hands immediately slid down the railings, burning a little, and he cried out.

"Are you okay?" Heather asked him, kneeling. "Don't get hurt."

"Believe me," he said, "I'm trying." He then let go of the rails with his hands and, pressing his feet against the wall, fell. His boots provided some friction against the wall, but not nearly enough to slow him down. He landed awkwardly, on one shin and one knee, banging both on the hard wood floor but, thankfully, not breaking anything. He accidentally bit his lip during the whole process, as well, but not enough to make it bleed. _A miraculous fall if there ever was one_, he thought.

"Come on," he said, turning around. "Now you come down. Just jump, and I'll catch you." He held out his arms.

"Okay," Heather said. "Here I c--" but something across the room seemed to catch her attention, because her good eye became wide with terror and she pointed towards the balcony hall on the opposite wall. "Douglas, look out!"

Douglas turned just in time to see James aiming the rifle at him. He heard the _ka-chink_ of the bolt sliding into place, and he had just enough time to stumble to the left before the round would have taken his leg off at the knee. Instead, it punched a hole in the wall behind him. He drew his gun, but he didn't have a chance to aim it--James had already chambered the next round and was preparing to fire.  
"_Leave him alone!_" Heather screamed at James. Douglas heard movement up there, followed by Heather's grunt of effort and then a loud, glistening crash. Looking up, Douglas saw that Heather had thrown something at James. A flower pot, perhaps? Had there been one up there? He hadn't thought to look.

James, now bleeding from his mouth and nose, ignored Heather and fired at Douglas again, barely missing. The next time, Douglas was sure the madman wouldn't miss. Not in these closed quarters; the only place to run would be down the north hall, and that would only allow James a clear shot at him, with nowhere to retreat--left _or _right.

"Douglas, go!" Heather screamed, holding onto the railing with both hands. "Take the book and go! I'll find another way out!" She threw the book down to him, and he caught it.

"No!" Douglas shouted...his voice felt unusually loud, and it was then that he realized, James had also cried out in disagreement. Odd. "Heather, you jump down here right now! He'll kill you!"

"No, he won't," Heather said. "Just go. I'll meet you on the outside."

"Heather--"

Another shot. This one hit the wall less than an inch to the right of Douglas' head.

"_Go!_"

Douglas turned and shot at James, four quick shots. He must've missed, though, because the man didn't even flinch; instead, he jerked the bolt again and aimed straight at Douglas.

"Please, Douglas," Heather said, nearly crying. "He's gonna blow your head off!"

James smiled at this, as though he were a famous person whose abilities have just given him away to a casual passerby, but he said nothing. Just fired. This shot took Douglas' hat off of his head--the detective felt the bullet graze the top of his head in passing.

For some strange reason, Douglas found himself chasing his hat. He grabbed it off the floor and turned to Heather. "You'd better live, kid. Got that? I won't forgive you if you die on me!"

Heather smiled through her tears of terror, and tossed him a thumbs-up. "I won't. Now go!"

Douglas dashed towards the lobby doors. He opened them, but just before he went through them, he saw a terrible sight, for he couldn't help but cast one over-the-shoulder glance at Heather.

James stood where he was for a moment, rifle swung on the strap over his shoulder like a guitar during the tacet part of a song, and then he took off down the balcony hall. Instead of opening the door, he merely crashed through it as if it hadn't been there. He was like a raging bull, except he had a gun to boot.

Now, Heather was going to have to beat the minotaur out of the maze. Douglas closed his eyes and silently prayed to whatever twisted God that could allow this place to exist that Heather would survive. Then, he stepped outside and closed the doors.

He started to run down the porch steps, but wound up slamming into a heavy iron grate instead. He backed up, startled and confused, and stared at this new confusion before him.

On their way in, the porch had been an open stoop, and they had been free to walk on or off of it. Now, a thick metal grate closed off the entire porch, as if it were screened in. Except there was no door.

A large white sheet of sketching paper had been attached to the grating with masking tape, and on the paper the words _HA HA YOU'RE DEAD _had been neatly sketched in 3D with a drawing pencil.

Douglas rattled the wire, tackled it, beat on it, but all to no avail. It gave part of an inch here and there, but it was stuck tight to the walls. There was no way he was getting out through this porch.

_Oh, no,_ he thought. _Heather!_

He turned back to the wooden door, seized the handle, and pulled...but succeeded only in straining his shoulder.

The door would not open.

"_Damn it!_"

From inside, he could hear the sounds of demolition. A struggle was going on in there, and it was close by. He'd found her.

_"Heather!_" Douglas pounded on the door. "_Heather, open the door! For God's sake!_" He jiggled the lock, pounded on the glass, kicked the crap out of the door...but it refused to open, as if held by some hellish power.

Screams echoed from within the house, intermingled with thuds, crashes, and loud cursing. Douglas' heart sped up a thousand times, however, when he heard Heather scream at the top of her lungs.

_"I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I'M GONNA KILL YOU, I FUCKING HATE YOU! I'M GONNA--"_

_BAM!_

Finally--his body wasn't moving as fast as his mind wanted it to, each second which passed felt like one too many--he drew his gun and shot the glass. It shattered instantly, spilling sharp fragments into the lobby room. He reached his hand through the glass and down to the handle on the inside, undid the lock, and then used the outside handle to jerk the door open. He burst into the lobby, gun raised, calling Heather's name desparately.

When he saw the scene before him, he felt his heart skip a beat.

The grand wooden door had been torn off of its hinges, and now lay in a broken heap all around the little center table, as if it had been hit by a freight train. The white china had been shattered as well. But none of that was what really mattered, not to Douglas.

He rushed into the overfurnished living quarters, his gun outstretched. He looked to the left, to the right...nobody. James was gone. He holstered his gun and rushed forward, nearly tripping over the overturned sofa, and knelt by Heather's body, which lay in a most unnatural position against the overturned table in the middle of the room.

All the furniture in here had been either overturned, broken, or completely destroyed (in the case of the oblong coffee table, which now consisted solely of a metal frame and protruding glass fragments), making the brutality of the struggle which had taken place even more obvious. Heather lay face-down in a pile of broken glass, the carpet around her face stained with an unmistakable red liquid. The edge of the table, too, was stained with red, signifying that James had bashed her face against it at least once, probably repeatedly, in an effort to kill her.

"Heather..." Douglas knelt over the body, his arms out to his sides. "Oh, my God...I'm sorry...I shouldn't have left you..." He couldn't take his eyes from her. He wanted to, this was not what he wanted to see...but he _couldn't_. For once, he found himself unable to believe what his eyes were telling him.

He put his hand on her shoulder, wanting to roll her over but afraid of the ruin which might be her face...so he gathered his courage and lifted her up, sitting her against the table. What he saw on her face was not as bad as he had expected...but it was most definitely not good.

Her other eye had been ripped out. Not even the tendons to which the eye had once been attached were visible.

"Oh, my God," he said. He put his hand over her heart, drenching his hand on the blood which stained the front of her shirt. "God, you're...you're still alive?" He was happy...but at the same time, he was horrified. She was going to be in an extreme amount of pain when she awakened.

"Looking for this?" A voice said from behind Douglas. He pivoted onto one knee, drawing his gun.

There, in the foyer, stood James. The rifle was slung over his shoulder, as though he knew he wouldn't be needing it, and one hand was placed high up on the jamb to the decimated door. In his other hand, however, was Heather's missing eye.

"You crazy bastard," Douglas said, pointing the gun at him.

"Put that thing away," James told him, rolling the eyeball in his hand, seeming to test its plumpness as though it were a vegetable. A small tangle of nerve endings spread from the edge of the bloody thing, but that didn't seem to bother James--he didn't appear to be anywhere near as squeamish as Heather had implied. "It's not going to help you. Out there, all you need is a gun, and you're the boss. But in here, things work a little differently. I told you I would cut you down, and you didn't believe me. I told you you were damned, and you still don't believe me." He dropped the eyeball on the floor...and then squashed it under his boot.

"Just_ die!"_ Douglas said, and shot him in the heart.

The bullet pierced James' coat, but didn't come out the other side. James snorted, reached down with the hand he'd used to play with Heather's eyeball, and pulledthe bullet out of the wound using his fingernails--they weren't too long, but apparently they _were _incredibly powerful, since he was able to use them as if they were pliers. The bullet came out with a wet smacking sound and he dropped it on the floor in front of him, just as he had done with the eyeball. "I already told you," he said, without a shred of sarcasm in his voice, "That thing won't help you. Listen up, cop. I'm trying to save you. I saved what I could of her, but she's already done a lot of damage on her own. You're still relatively safe; if you turn back now, you won't suffer. Just pack your bags and go. Take the cop with you. He needs to see a doctor, anyway."

"You and I both know I can't do that," Douglas said, still pointing the gun at James. "What are you? What do you want?"

"I've already told you what I want," James said. "I want you to leave. You can take the girl, if you want. I don't want her."

Douglas felt a sweatdrop slide into his eye and burn. He blinked that eye, not wanting to close it but helpless against his reflexes. "Why did you hurt her? Why did you give her to that psychopath under the hospital?"

"I already explained this to you," he said. "I'm genuinely sorry for what Laurence did. He was supposed to kill her, not torture her. If I had been in charge, she would have died swiftly and painlessly. But Laurence is a moron. He puts his own sick desires before the good of the world." The next thing James did made Douglas want to vomit; he took the index finger he'd used to play with Heather's eye and remove the bullet, and he started picking his teeth with it. "But me...I try to be as humane as I can."

"What gives you the right?"

"The right?" James said, ceasing his toothpicking. "The right to what?"

"To kill people? To hurt people?"

"What gives them the right to live? How about that?"

Douglas gaped. He didn't know what to say; the man was a lunatic.

"Ah, relax, I'm just joshing you," James said, and leaned his back against the jamb. "Just a little lesson in philosophy. Nobody knows any of that stuff. Nobody but God, and whether or not he really even _exists _is up to personal interpretation.

"Do _you _believe in God?"

Douglas ground his teeth together in frustration. This jerk was playing games with him. "Why do you care?"

"You don't seem to understand," James insisted, twirling his hair around his filthy index finger. "_I'm _the good guy. I'm trying to help you."

"Some good guy," Douglas scoffed, "who goes around ripping out people's eyes."

Before James could respond, a click from behind him caught both men's attention.

"Drop the gun."

Douglas stared past James in wonder at Herring, who had come in through the front door somehow. His bad arm was hanging uselessly at his side, but his good hand was aiming the revolver at James. His face was extremely pale--_too _pale--and he seemed to be in a lot of pain, but that hadn't stopped him from coming to his partner's side. The makeshift bandage--constructed of all the medical tape and gauze in Douglas' miniature first-aid kit--still kept his arm tied uselessly to his chest like so much baggage, except stained with blood.

"Hah!" James said, tossing his long hair out of his face. "Here we go again. If you guys want to die, I guess we can do this now. But I don't think you really want to, so I guess our rendezvous is over. Take your girl with you on the way out, buddy." He looked at Douglas for emphasis.

"Go to hell," Douglas spat.

"Already there," James said, splaying his arms up to accentuate the room around him. "Already there, buddy." And with that, he walked towards Herring, who stumbled and almost fell on his ass. But James continued on past Herring without offering him a second glance. He opened the front door, went outside into the moonlit night, and actually turned around to carefully shut the door.

And then he was gone.

"Herring," Douglas said, running to his friend's side, "you look like you've been run over by a truck."

"Not quite," Herring said, wiping the cold sweat off of his brow. "More like three hundred pounds of burly, undead fury. That James guy...he's a real jerk."

"Tell me about it," Douglas said. "He just blinded Heather."

"_Wha?_" Herring said, looking over Douglas' shoulder. "What do you mean? He...did he get her other eye?"

Douglas nodded.

"Damn!"

"Yeah," Douglas said, patting Herring's good shoulder. "I'm going to carry her back to the car and get something for her...eye hole. Go and wait for me."

"Forget that," Herring said. "I'll help!"

"Herring, you're not well," Douglas said sternly. "If you don't rest up, you're going to get sick. You'll probably end up with gangrene or something if we don't take care of that arm."

"Fine," Herring said, obviously wanting nothing more than to go back and rest but simultaneously trying to keep up his bad-ass image in front of Douglas. It was just like Herring to pull a stunt like that.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Five minutes later, Heather was lying unconscious in the back seat of the car and Herring was leaning against the passenger seat, cradling his useless arm in his good hand, pale as ever. Douglas sat behind the wheel in a pondering stance, _Crimson Ceremony _on the dashboard. His eyes fell on the book, and it occurred to him that all of this damn trouble had started because of that book. Heather had lost an eye for that damn _book_. What was so special about it? He decided he would find out; he snatched it up off of the dashboard and read a page out loud:

"'Speak. I am the Crimson One. The lies and the mist are not they but I. You all know that I am One. Yes, and the One is I.'"

"What is that crap you're babbling?" Herring asked, looking over.

"It's this book, 'Crimson Ceremony,' that we found in there," Douglas informed him. "The thing Heather was after. Get this: 'Believers, Hearken to me! Twenty score men and seven thousand beasts. Heed my words and speaketh them to all, that they shall ever be obeyed even under the light of the proud and merciless sun."'

Herring looked at Douglas, uncertain. "What's it mean?"

"I have no idea," Douglas said. "But it might have more to do with what's going on here than we realize. It says, 'The lies and the mist are not they, but I.' If we had a better idea of who "They" and "I" were, then we might be able to solve whatever crazy mystery this is, unfolding around us. It seems like this is referring to the mist--the fog." He paused, tossing the book back on the dashboard as if it had no more value than a rolled-up newspaper. To him, it didn't, really. "Crazy mystery, indeed."

"Just like Scooby-Doo," Herring sighed.

Douglas glared at him.

"Sorry," Herring said, hurt.

Douglas' eyes scanned the page further, disturbed. "This is some creepy stuff here," he said. "It talks about vengeance and power. Some kind of holy declaration, I guess. Maybe it's got something to do with that crazy cult?"

"That's likely," Herring agreed. "Either that, or it was written by world's most notorious small-town egotist."

"Well, what do we do now? Heather's out of commission for now, and without her, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with this thing." He stared at the book on the dashboard. "I don't know how the hell that thing's supposed to lead Heather to her father."

Herring attempted to shrug, bit back a howl of pain when his left shoulder refused to comply, and settled for a cock of the head. "I don't know. I guess, we should do whatever you want to do. Got any other plans? I'd just as soon get the hell out of here. We got your kid."

Douglas stared at the mansion before them, the damned house that had almost gotten them both killed, and wondered...what _could _they do? They couldn't leave, not now. There was something too sinister to allow, too _evil_, going on in this town, and Douglas wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't do everything in his power to stop it. If for no other reason than to avenge Heather's losses--both physical and mental. That, and if he left with Heather now, without ever allowing her to complete pursuit of her delusion, she would probably never forgive him. For then, she could never truly know that her father was dead, despite what common sense suggested.

He stared out the windshield at the moon, watching as it observed this hellish place in all its terrible glory, observing but not interfering, staring down at them as if it knew some dark secret that could change everything...but refused to reveal it.

END OF CHAPTER 17


	18. The Sins of the Father

**Chapter 18**

**The Sins of the Father...**

_"Few are the sins of the father visited upon the son_

_Hearts have been hard, hands have been clenched into fists too long_

_Now, our sons need never be soldiers, our daughters will never need guns_

_These are the years between, these are the years that were hard-fought and won..."_

"Forgotten Years," _Midnight Oil_

_(Blue Sky Mining)_

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It did not occur to Steven until he reached the edge of the street, heading west from "Alchemilla" Hospital, that he realized he had not seen Miriam since before he'd come to town. For a moment he wondered about that, but then realized that it probably wasn't so odd after all--worst case scenario was, he was still hallucinating all of this. He dismissed this thought, however, when the hand holding the crutch--his right--slipped and sent him tumbling to the pavement, temporarily ingiting his kneecap with infuriating pain. He didn't suffer any real damage other than a scraped knee, but his pulse was sent through the roof, as if the ground had not been pavement but molten lava. He wondered why he should be so tense...and then the events of that scene in the alley came rushing back to him with startling, crystalline clarity--the girl he'd chased, the bloody cart, the wire mesh...and the weird cat-thing, which he'd been given no choice but to shoot and kill. He sat there on the streetcorner, one knee under him, amazed at his ability to forget so much so quickly, and wondered if he had forgotten anything _else _of importance--now was certainly not a good time for his memory to give out on him, considering that his body seemed to be doing just that.

But even that musing turned out to be inaccurate, for when he attempted to rise to his feet and wound up falling on his bad foot, he realized that it was no longer "bad" at all. The strange, licking-a-battery-with-his-foot sensation had departed, and he was able to rest his body on it without more than mild uncomfortability--nothing to keep him from walking. He cast the crutch onto the sidewalk, mystified and frustrated...and then decided that he'd probably be better off carrying the thing around with him. It wasn't a .357 Magnum, but it _was _steel, and steel was better than bare flesh when it came to defending oneself. He leaned over and picked it up, brandishing it before him as if it were a medieval broadsword, and then allowed it to fall to rest at his side.

Where to go now? Glancing down the streets to his left and right, he could only see the beginning of a two-way street, a few cars parked (illegally, it would seem) on the curb, among them a beautiful red sports car (license plate number _335 4211)_ akin to the kind Steven had always fantasized about owning and that he shortly wondered if he should hotwire, and a seemingly endless patch of dense, oppressive fog, blowing down the street like a kind of ghostly traffic. He wanted that car, bad--he hadn't seen anything too far out of the ordinary since he'd awakened at the hospital, but all the same he felt a deep uncertainty, as if a part of him knew that something evil was waiting for him somewhere out there in the fog--but ultimately, he decided against taking it. First off, just because this air of desolation had penetrated his heart as if there were nobody left in the world, didn't mean that there _wasn't_ anybody left in the world. He would feel like a first-rate jackass if he took the car and was stopped shortly after by a cop, only to be arrested and put into the local paper under the headline "Man Saved by Benevolent Local, Arrested for Grand Theft Auto." He'd seen this kind of thing in movies, and he knew it was usually a bad idea to judge reality based on something that might or might not be a dream.

"Got to remember why I'm here," he mumbled against the fog as it blew in his face. "Town Hall's probably a good start." Yeah, that sounded like a good idea. From Town Hall--or maybe even the Police Station--he could do some research on Miriam's case, maybe track down the officers who'd worked on the case. A dangerous mission, no doubt--Miriam's case had been covered up, which was almost surely to say that some or all of the local law enforcement had been in on the dark underworkings--but only if one approached it broadly. Steven would have to be subtle, careful, if he wanted to make sure the wrong questions didn't reach the wrong ears. He couldn't just barge into the local PD and start asking about Miriam's murder...but if he played his cards right, it wouldn't be long before he could.

With victory already on his mind, Steven crossed the street to his right and found himself on the block opposite from Alchemilla hospital. Weird name for a medical facility, he pondered, taking one wonderful glance back at the structure. He wondered if you pronounced it _Al-Kem-Ill-Uh _or _Al-Kem-Ee-Ya_, and then decided that it probably didn't matter. Shrugging, he started down the sidewalk, heading north.

He passed a few garages, closed off with steel shutters, and a building that appeared to be a restaurant or other such eatery--the name was not legible, as the letters seemed to have been removed. He could see the sillhouettes where the letters had been overhead, but in this fog they were only vague and meaningless shapes, devoid of their linguistic significance by the limited visibility. He casually glanced into the window...and saw something, reflected just on the surface of the glass. It looked like it might be a person's face...Steven pivoted on his bad-even-though-it-wasn't-technically-bad-anymore foot, turning to meet the owner of the reflection...

...and realized that it was not a person at all, but a thick segment of fog. Somehow, it seemed as though the faint moonlight coming from above had conjured some kind of hallucination, fed by Steven's paranoia. He was going to have to stop jumping at reflections...what was next, shadows? If so, things were about to become extremely difficult, for this town was full of them. Steven shook his head, patted his cheeks for emphasis--_Pay attention, you dweeb!_--and continued down the sidewalk, sparing himself a further glance into the building's large window.

Just as he reached the end of the block, though, he stopped again. Shouldn't he report his weird incident to the local police? In the event that somebody had really taken him from the dark alley back there and registered him at that hospital, his disappearance from his room might cause a minor stir. A man who came in from out of town, passed out in an alley, and disappeared from his hospital room...that was a man likely to draw attention. And at this early stage in this grim game, attention was the last thing he needed to draw to himself. But, conversely, reporting his incident to the police would only draw attention to him, even label him as an oddball (in the event that he was not believed).

_Oh, stop worrying about it,_ Steven told himself. _You're going to try so hard to look casual that you're going to sabotage your efforts towards secrecy. Just calm down, do what needs to be done as quick as you can...finish the job._

"But what if..." he said aloud, afraid to finish...and not just because somebody might hear him. _What if I have to...to fight someone? To kill someone?_

_What if, what if, _his mind responded. _Just calm down and play the game. Think of it like Monopoly--right now, nobody's really friends, but they're not enemies yet, either. Take advantage of their ignorance to get ahead on the board. By the time they pick up on you, you'll have the advantage._

"Maybe," he said out loud, wondering why he always chose to give voice to his negative thoughts and never his positive ones. He figured that was probably because he wasn't one of those TV Supervillains, the kind that always explained their master plan out loud (Because "the heroes are gonna die anyway, so I can tell them without fear of them using my plans to work against me...right?"). But then he told himself to focus, and thus forgot about it.

Standing on the edge of the sidewalk at the corner of two streets he couldn't name, he realized that he could see the Silent Hill PD straight ahead, across the street. Good; so he _was _still in Silent Hill (he'd figured, but an indicator certainly helped). He wondered if anyone was inside the PD, and if so, if they were the _right _people. The Miriam Karlyle murder case may have gone down almost five years ago, but that didn't mean that someone in charge of the cover-up might still be on the force, maybe even in charge of it.

Steven thanked the night for covering his passage, and turned across the street to the left. This one appeared to be a main street, as it was much wider than the other ones, including the one he'd crossed earlier at Alchemilla. He reached the opposite side without interruption, but as soon as he placed his foot on the curb he heard a noise in the distance. Car horn.

"Huh," he said, turning. This would be the first person he'd seen in town, inside of the first moving vehicle, which would be a welcome but confusing sight, considering the strange emptiness of Alchemilla. Sure, it had been odd, but...it wasn't just the hospital. There was something oddly disquieting about this whole place, aside from the fact that the hospital had been completely devoid of life. It was as if something sinister waited just below the surface (_What surface?_ his mind inquired), watching him with its obscene red Eyes. That's how the word occurred to him--red Eyes, with a capital "E."

The sound of the car's sputtering engine drew closer, but the awkward acoustic phenomenon caused by a vehicle approaching very quickly rendered it difficult to tell how fast the vehicle was going. Steven figured it didn't matter anyway, since he was on the curb...but then he saw the headlights, coming from just over the horizon at the end of the street ahead of him, the one with the PD on the left corner and the corner on which he'd been standing moments ago on the right. The bright yellow headlights, partially obscured by some strange shape--presumably, some kind of patterned sticker, stuck over the headlights to create a kaleidoscopic effect--were positioned awkwardly across the road, weaving quickly to the left and the right, as if the vehicle were piloted by a drunk driver. They drew closer and closer to the crossroad, still weaving as if the driver were unsure of which direction to take. Then, they fell across Steven--a very unsettling position, considering that the vehicle would have to be facing him for that to occur. And that was when he realized what was going on.

The car was coming for him.

Whomever was behind the wheel, they apparently had a beef with Steven. Either that, or they were just shit-drunk--or, yet another possibility, drudged up by the mention of the kaleidoscopic sticker over the lights: young kids, joyriding. Or maybe a gang.

Steven started backing up, glancing over his shoulder and realizing too little, too late, that he was headed down a narrow path that, up ahead, turned onto a drawbridge area. If he'd reacted a second or two sooner, he'd have been able to run forward and take a right turn, ducking out of the car's path before things could turn ugly, but unfortunately his reflexes were as aged and faded as his hair might have appeared to be, to the casual onlooker. The car was now less than fifty feet from him, and he was already quite a ways down towards the bridge. His only hope would be to reach the passenger walk on the edge of the drawbridge...but although it was only a hundred or so feet away, it seemed like a thousand miles. Nonetheless, Steven broke into a run towards his only chance at survival, dropping his metal crutch without even thinking about it and nearly tripping over it, almost ending it all right there.

The car's headlights landed on Steven, seemed to acknowledge him with some kind of demonic sense of sight, and immediately steadied out, intent on running him down. This was no drunk driver, no; the driver of this car fully intended to kill Steven, in cold blood.

Running, Steven saw the headlights pooling on the ground around him, splaying his hurrying shadow on the ground before him like a ghostly reflection, and for a split-second Steven saw the shadow as he imagined his corpse might be, were he to allow this car to run him down--hands frantically thrown out to the sides in an effort to cushion the impact, legs thrown haphazardly back onto the pavement, crushed beneath two tons of steel and a few extra pounds of tracked rubber. He saw this image both on the ground, sillhouetted by his scrambling shadow, as well as in his mind, clearer than the night would have been if the fog weren't hovering on top of it like an overprotective parent. For a moment he saw this image so clearly that he figured the car must already have run him down, he must already be smashed on the pavement, his life flashing before his eyes...but then he heard metal scraping against stone, and he realized that the car's front bumper had just abraided against the four-foot-high stone wall on this side of the bridge area. Steven glanced over the edge of the stone wall, to his left, hoping for a place to be able to jump across, but his hope was quickly crushed when he saw a rushing riverbank, far down the wall. The bitch of it was, it probably wouldn't have been such a steep drop, if only Steven had approached it from the beginning of the bridge, way back there at the corner...but he'd already been running so far for so long that the drop had fallen to almost a hundred feet. And the farther he ran, the deeper the drop became.

If only he'd seen the drop earlier; perhaps he could've jumped over it and left the damned car up here on the other side of this damned stone wall! But now it was too late...already, he could feel his feet growing tired. He wasn't used to running this fast, sprinting this hard, even for just this long. Soon, his legs would give out and throw him down to the pavement, where he would be run asunder by yon looming vehicle.

But just as the last of his hope had begun to seep from his heart and mind, as the last drops of strength were being tapped from his legs, he saw it come out of the fog up ahead--the pedestrian walkway. It was a blue metal rail, several feet wide, certainly enough to at least deter the pursuit of an oncoming vehicle. It was less than fifty feet away, barely even obscured by the fog...it was so close, and yet he didn't think his feet would be able to keep up this insane rhythm for much longer. Already his knees were trying to buckle, trying to spill the rest of his body over and onto the cold pavement, which was coming to symbolize death for Steven, the end. He could feel the muscles in his feet straining, could hear the car scraping the wall behind him, trying to get to him...he would've tried dodging to the left and the right, but he felt like one wrong move might cause him to trip over his own feet and take a deadly, final tumble--his feet were going numb, so that each step he took was neither coordinated nor supported, but rather a blind and repetitive excercise that would doubltess leave his legs aching and numb for several hours, probably days, to come, in the event that he survived.

Thirty feet...twenty feet...ten...there it was, so close...

He almost took a tumble, but it wasn't the tumble that scared him. It was what had caused him to take the tumble. The car's bumper had just scraped the back of his heel. It was too close; he wasn't going to make it.

The bumper mashed his heel again--was it _playing _with him?--causing him to cry out, but miraculously he kept his balance. He turned his final step into a jump, a leap of faith, and felt the bumper of the car neatly hook the heel of his shoe and slide it off of his foot. Steven had time to be amazed at this before his face smacked against the cold, hard surface of the safety rail, the only thing between him and the sprawling abyss beneath him; the drop was now so great that the bottom was no longer visible, completely obscured by the fog, which seemed to be even denser over the drop than it was on land. Which was understandable; judging by the bank he'd seen back there, the drop was over some river or a lake.

All of these instantaneous ruminations were wiped from his mind by an insurmountable desire to turn and look behind him, now that he was lying (safe?) behind the wall of the pedestrian walkway. He did so, biting back the pain that flared in his smashed cheek (he would find later that not a bone was broken, but a nasty bruise had formed, and on the same cheek as the slashes Miriam had given him, of all places), and saw that the car had hit the pedestrian walkway and was now in the process of driving up against it, tires squealing, trying in vain to get over the embankment. The bottom of the vehicle was visible to Steven, and the blast of its engine seemed like it might be loud enough to blow out an eardrum. Steven sheltered his ears, crawling down the walk, afraid to stand up in the event that the vehicle should miraculously find its way over the embankment and punch him into a red pulp from the waist up.

Amazingly, the car seemed to be following him, actually _sliding _down the embankment, propelled by its rear tires as the front ones spun in the air, vehement but useless. Where would he have to go to get _away _from this thing?

Turning, he dared to peek over the other side of the railing. Up ahead, not thirty or fourty feet, was some kind of small tower, probably two small stories in height, sitting on a protrusion coming out of the side of the bridge (thankfully, the side he was on). If he could just make it that far...

The car revved up, pulling itself up a bit farther. Still not close enough to hit Steven, but that didn't make it seem any less threatening. He refused to rise to his feet, opting to crawl the distance down the pedestrian walk towards the tower. When he was immediately adjacent to the tower, separated from it only by the pedestrian walkway's thick railing, he took a deep breath, gathered his courage and pulled himself to his feet. He put his hands on the rail before him and leapt it, his aching feet landing on the other side. He booked it straight towards the tower, reaching the door at the bottom in seconds. He grabbed the knob with both hands and tried to turn it.

Locked.

"_Damn it!_" Steven voiced, turning to check the progress of the car. The walkway ended just a few feet past the tower...but the protrusion which served as the drawbridge control tower's base did not. There would be plenty of room for the car to circle the walkway, then rush him and flatten him against the base of the tower.

The car was wasting no time doing just that. It was screaming towards him once again.

Breathing heavily, Steven turned the corner of the tower and found a staircase leading up. He took it two steps at a time, not even using the safety railing, feeling the tendons in his feet and legs creaking from effort, threatening to blow out from beneath him before long, and just as he made it to the top, the second level of the tower, he heard (and felt) an earth-shattering metallic crash.

Looking down over the railing, Steven saw that the car had rammed the staircase's bottom step, bending it inward. From here, Steven could see that the car was a Delta '88 which seemed to have been sloppily spraypainted a dark color, either black or...

Or red. That wasn't spray-paint at all. Under other circumstances, Steven might not have been able to make the judgement from this distance...but seeing that car, seeing the windshield covered with that substance, crusty and dried brown in some places and pasty wet red in others, he knew that it was blood. Knew, without a second to think about it. That was no kaleidoscope effect applied to the headlights--it was a scatter of blood-stains.

Steven watched as the car rammed the bottom step again and again, as if it were some living thing filled with the fury of hellfire and brimstone behind it, ready to exterminate anything which crossed its path. After a moment, the bottom step had been demolished into a twisted heap of metal, and Steven tired of watching. Every bone in his body trembling with disbelief and tension, his skin colder than the weather warranted, he turned the corner on the second floor deck and found a door leading into the control deck. There was no knob on this one, only a handle, and when Steven pulled on it, the door opened with ease, thankfully unlocked.

Inside was a small room, surely no wider than the average-sized child's bedroom in a standard home, outfitted with a window above a single control panel on the wall immediately ahead, a single swivel-chair in front of that, and a wooden floor. Stepping further into the room, Steven could feel the foundation of the tower trembling from the efforts of the insane vehicle (and, presumably, its equally insane operator). It would probably stop once it realized that Steven had escaped to safety and was unattainable.

Wouldn't it?

Steven could only wait and watch from here, through the wide glass window. He sat down in the chair before the control panel...and that was when he saw his weapon of choice.

"Of course!" he said with obvious glee, reaching down to the control panel. A large red button with the words _Toggle Drawbridge_ etched beneath it in similar red had attracted his eyes. But he felt his heart sink when he saw the empty keyhole just beneath the button. If only he had the key...then, if he could get the car back on the drawbridge, he'd be able to activate it, and that stupid car? Scrap. If he could activate the bridge, get on it, get the car to follow him...then maybe he could get it to fall into the water below? Or maybe even just fall down the length of the bridge, only to be smashed on the street below?

"It's gotta be here somewhere," he said, feeling around under the seat. Finding nothing there, he searched the control panel from all sides, hoping to find it taped or hanging somewhere obscure. Still nothing. His heart beginning to race again, he turned back towards the exit. There was a key panel by the door, on the wall, but it was completely empty. Now that he thought about it, he realized that it was probably a hopeless idea, anyway. What were the chances that the car would fall for that (he took a moment to feel silly, for he'd come to think of the car as a physical, thinking entity, as opposed to an inanimate object piloted by a sinister being)? Things were starting to look down again...how was he going to get out of here?

He wondered why nobody had come to his rescue yet. One would think that people might notice an obnoxious renegade automobile, especially when said automobile was as obnoxious and renegade as this one.

"Or as blood-soaked," he thought aloud. That was the defining point; that car was not normal. He had to guess that this type of thing didn't happen to just anybody who wandered through town. That car had been waiting for _him. _Either him _specifically, _or just for the first person unlucky enough to be locked-on to.

But _how _had the driver seen him, from as far away as he (or she) had been, up over the horizon? It didn't make sense. Unless they had some kind of tracking device, or maybe binoculars or something...or, worse, it might not be something physical at all--rather, it could be another strange monster, like the cat-thing in the alley back there. Maybe it _hadn't _been a dream?

"No," he told himself. "No, don't even start thinking crazy like that!"

_Why not? _his mind retorted. _You can't say that you expected to be able to just come into town and correct this grave injustice, this murder, this valuable part of the town's history, without facing the town's dark side...can you?_

To this, Steven had no response.

_It's more than the town, I think, _his mind wandered. _I wonder if this has something to do with Miriam? Maybe it's somehow connected with her murder? _He recalled a saying he couldn't place exactly, something about how shedding the blood of the innocent cursed the land...maybe that had something to do with all of this? ...Well, even if it didn't, Steven was already starting to have second thoughts about his faith, and how he had gone about expressing it in the past few years.

Then, the worst possibility of all occured to him; what if this was his own purgatory, his own personal hell, his punishment from God? Maybe, at long last, God had come around to getting even with Steven--no pun intended--for all of the religious injustices he'd committed.

"No," he said out loud, appreciating the sound of that word against all of this. It was a lonely word, but all the same, he found it comforting; just because it was alone in its opposition to these thoughts didn't necessarily make it wrong. "No, God's not like that. Not the God I believe in."

All the same, though, he knew that if he ever made it out of this alive, he would owe God an entirely new debt, one that would likely never be paid off.

At last, he noticed that he could no longer feel the tower occasionally vibrating from the demonic car's impact. Had it gone away already?

Looking outside, Steven realized that snow had begun to fall.

"Here?" he asked, rising to his feet, his hands on the control panel before him. "In Ashfield was weird enough, but...it's the middle of Spring!"

But his words could not deny the vision before him. Snow was falling, and something very, very weird was going on in this town. He knew right then and there that he could stay in this tower not a moment longer; car or no car, he had to figure out a way to get to Old Silent Hill, where City Hall waited for him. He could learn what he

needed to learn there, and then go back by the PD later and report this insane crime.

He whirled around, crossed the room and put his hand over the doorhandle, hesitating for a moment. He almost expected to hear the insane vehicle's furious cry, but of course he didn't. So he pulled the door open and walked around the outer balcony area, coming to the stair he had taken up.

The bottom half of the staircase had been bent backward and folded around its bottom in the car's wake. Steven could still make the jump down--it was only about a six-foot drop--but he wouldn't be able to get back up, once he got down. So he figured it would pay to make sure in advance that the car would not come after him if he jumped down. He looked over his shoulder, back down the way he'd come.

Nothing. But that wasn't to say that something wouldn't come rushing at him the minute he dropped.

"Oh, stop," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're acting paranoid."

But _was _he? Paranoid, or safe?

"Just...shut up," he said, and began to climb down. He reached a dangling position, with his hands hanging on to the edge of the last usable step and his feet just a few inches above the pavement, where he hesitated once more to check for the car. When he still neither heard nor saw it, he allowed himself to drop to the ground, stretching his aching limbs. Already, this felt like a long night...but Steven reckoned that it would soon seem longer, for there was much work to be done. And apparently, many more obstacles between here and the finish line than he had expected. He would have to watch his back much more closely from here on out.

It was only once he had begun to walk down the road, away from the drawbridge and towards the town hall, that Eileen crossed his mind for the first time since seeing her in the alleyway. He slowed his pace almost to a stop, wondering if he should turn back (and wishing he still had the gun he'd borrowed from her to shoot the cat-thing). In the end he decided against it--he had no clue if that was even the direction of the alley he'd seen her in, and he would continue to have no clue until he found a map of this accursed place (and, to take things a step further, a way to identify the alley in which their little confrontation had taken place). It was like a maze, this town!

At the end of the street was another four-way cross-stop. To the left, just across the street, Steven could see a gas station's overhead sign, just barely visible beneath the thick blanket of fog. He decided to stop in there before moving on, to see if he might be able to get a ride to city hall. With people like that insane driver running the streets, he didn't want to take any more chances than necessary. Hell, he didn't even remember for sure that this was Old Silent Hill, the part of town where city hall was...it had been years since he'd been here, and he didn't even remember that Alchemilla place. He hadn't even gotten an idea of where he was until he'd seen the PD; he couldn't help but feel like a child lost in an impossibly large supermarket--you would just have to replace the shops with houses and the creepy mall rats with malicious drivers, their leather jackets and mullets with bloody smacks.

As he stepped over the curb towards the gas station, he saw that, while the garage was shuttered, the door beside it was not. In fact, it had been left wide open. Approaching this door, he slowed his pace, expecting something but unsure of exactly what. When he reached the door, he gently rapped on the inside. "Hello? Anybody here?"

No response. He stepped inside, knocking once again before he was completely inside. "Hello?" he called once more, to be sure. "I need help, if anyone's here!"

The garage was empty. There was a large dark stain in the center of the floor, but it was (thankfully) too dark to be blood, for which he almost mistook it, and the only other thing in the room was a shelf against the right wall, which was lined with manuals of countless origins as well as a significantly elongated toolbox, which ran the length of the top shelf. There was another door in the back of the room, so Steven tried it just to be sure. It was locked, so he knocked on it three times, louder than he had on the outside one. "Anybody home? Please, it's an emergency!"

He waited...and waited...knocked again...waited...nothing.

_Great, _he thought, _nobody here either._ He turned to leave the room, making sure to shut the door behind him once he was outside. _Where the hell _is _everybody?_

On the street again, coming away from the gas station, he started along the sidewalk continuing west. He passed a church steeple and stopped, looking up at the building's grandiose wooden doors. Surely a church would take him in; there had to be _somebody _in the rectory here!

Stepping up to the doors, he knocked several times. "Hello?" When he got no response (which he had expected, but also hoped against), he opened the doors and let himself inside.

He felt his heart sink when he looked into the large room, with its green carpet and great, staring crucifix. He didn't know why he should feel such a heavy, dreadful sorrow while standing at the foot of the room, looking in at all of those empty pews...but he felt it. It was as if the room was full of invisible energy, perhaps the souls of the damned, beckoning to him, calling to him, pleading with him to try to ease their suffering but knowing deep inside that there would be nothing he could do to save them. The idea disturbed him deeply...but he was still drawn to the center of the room, towards the large, shimmering crucifix fixated to the wall just above the central altar. He stared up at it, into its eyes, almost as if there should be something within, perhaps some conscious entity.

"Jesus," he said to the model, not as an exclamation but as an address to the man whom he recognized as his Savior, the one and only Son of God. "Jesus, you know me...I know I'm not always the way I should be, but I figured you'd understand my deviations..."

Looking up at the face on the crucifix, he was chilled. There was something about this statue, something almost malevolent, to say the least _intimidating,_ that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"I guess that's where I was wrong," he continued. "In any case...just let me say this, as a prayer...please, whatever happens to me...you've got to guide me. You've got to help me put Miriam's soul to rest once and for all. I don't care what happens to me after that, but...please. If nothing else, let my trials here justify her peace in death."

The statue did not respond (as expected), but continued to stare straight past him with those cold, dead eyes.

Sighing, Steven turned back to face those empty pews...and felt his heart leap into his throat. He cried out in surprised terror, falling against the altar, unsure of what to think, for the vision was gone before it had really been there at all.

Looking down at the pews from the upraised altar, he could have sworn that, for just a second, he'd seen a couple of people sitting on the back pews. A man and a woman, it had seemed. One of them blonde, one brunette. One in a white blouse and one in a brown leather jacket. They had been sitting there, arms around each other, looking straight at him with empty, expressionless eyes, and it had chilled him deeply. Suddenly, he didn't want to be here any more--he didn't care if somebody _was _here. He started for the door, expecting to be stopped by something horrible...but of course, he wasn't. When he reached the door, he started to turn back and glance behind him...but held back. He was too afraid that he might actually find something. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him without hesitation.

Not until he had reached the edge of the sidewalk did he allow himself to look back, and when he did he wished that he hadn't. For he saw the couple, staring out the west-facing window at him. For just a second--then they were gone--but he saw them, and it had been long enough to know that they were real, and not something his mind had conjured.

Steven realized that his heart was beating very quickly. He turned and crossed the street, heading away from the church and towards city hall, this time not allowing himself to look back at all, even after he had reached the next block. He didn't know why the sight of a human's spiritual remains should disturb him more than that of an otherworldly predator (specifically, the cat-thing), but for some reason it did.

"Finally," he said under his breath, looking up at the large architecture before him. The words _Silent Hill Town Center _communicated the message efficiently enough--this was his destination. Taking the small but numerous stone steps very slowly, covering two steps with each one of his own, he eventually made his way to the top, where he passed by a large progression of marble pillars. Looking at them, and then ahead at the large porch area, he wondered why they called this area Old Silent Hill. It certaintly didn't _look _old; in fact, it looked as if it had been serviced quite recently, what with the green marble tile all over the ground. And this was just the front porch! He could see a smaller progression of glass doors up ahead, three or four wide, and beyond them he could see what he had feared the most--an empty lobby. Even in a town such as this, he'd have thought that _somebody _would have been in the lobby, be it an attendant or receptionist or something.

It was starting to seem as if there was nobody _anywhere _in this town.

Sighing, Steven tried one of the glass doors. Oddly enough, it opened. He stepped into the lobby, hearing his black shoes echo off of the marble floor. The sound bounced manically around the massive room, further magnified by the terrific acoustics. It wasn't as big as some buildings he'd seen, but the way it was built, one person might be able to hear another person as he or she spoke from an opposite end of the room. The sound carried very well--almost _too _well; Steven feared that, if some malicious presence should announce itself, he would be walking right into their clutches, having announced his own presence just by walking. But he was soon comforted by the hand-in-hand realization that any malicious intruder would _also _have to give him- or herself away, for the same reasons. Steven scolded himself for being so paranoid.

But really...could he blame himself? What with all he had seen so far (the irony of which was that seeing _nothing _seemed to qualify as seeing _something _unusual), it was hard to maintain the same frame of mind one might adopt in a more normal situation. He was beginning to feel like the last man on earth; he imagined this must be how the characters in his favorite movie, _The Stand,_ had felt, shortly after a plague had wiped the earth clean except for a few survivors. The difference was, Steven was willing to put his money on the bet that he wouldn't be meeting any other "survivors" anytime soon--friend _or _foe. In fact, he figured that he would sooner encounter another of those deeply unsettling ghost-like "visitors"...no, that wasn't right. For some reason, even the term "visitor" didn't seem right for them. They seemed perfectly at home here, not as if they were visiting a foreign place.

It seemed more like _Steven _was the one who was visiting a foreign place. Not a different town, or city, or state or province or country...but almost like another _world._

Stepping farther into the room, Steven cupped his hands over his mouth. "Hello?" He was startled by how well his voice carried, and equally surprised at how dense he was becoming. He'd noticed the powerful acoustics on the way in, and yet he'd scared himself only moments later...he really hoped he wouldn't have another encounter with that insane driver or anything like him/her anytime soon.

Before he had a chance to blow off this pointless rumination, he was startled once again by a loud ringing, coming from the desk on the other side of the spacious lobby. He hesitated for a moment, feeling that it was an unfamiliar sound...but two seconds was enough time for his brain to register it for what it was: a telephone. Ringing. And that could only mean one thing: There _was _somebody else in this town! Steven made a run for the phone as if there were a hundred feet between it and himself instead of only thirty or so. His boots echoed noisily off the tiles, sounding like an army of roughneck Stevens instead of one isolated priest, and made an equally loud noise when they connected with the front desk on which the phone--a black handset with an old-fashioned finger-ring dial--sat. He leaned over the counter, meaning to grasp the phone from the other side...but then his eyes fell on the mess strewn on the floor _behind _the counter.

"Oh, my God," Steven said, unable to speak further, his hands locked helplessly in place. "What...what is this?" He couldn't take his eyes off of it.

There was no body to speak of, but Steven wasn't sure if that was good or bad--the lack thereof seemed to speak of something much darker, which had occurred after the initial struggle that had obviously taken place but behind closed doors. He had a feeling that, if there had been a body, at least that would offer some closure, some explanation of what exactly had happened here. At the same time, it would be a gruesome sight, but...oh, hell, there was no real competition--knowing would ultimately be better than not knowing. The mess was there, in any case--a splatter of fresh, dark red fluid coated the floor and the file cabinets behind the counter, which had been overturned in the struggle. The red fluid led away from the scene, through a door behind the counter and to the left, drenching files and books and papers with its unmistakable presence. And the _smell..._Steven had never in his life smelled blood so powerfully as he could right now.

Whatever had happened...he had a feeling that it had concluded beyond that door. His head turned towards it...but the phone's incessant ring caught his attention once again, and he realized that he had let it ring for almost a minute without answering it. He snatched the handset off the cradle and smooshed it against his ear. "Hello?"

"Heh, heh," a voice enunciated, barely above a whisper. The connection was bad--much static interfered with the sound, but not enough to prevent him from understanding what it was. "Heh!"

"Who are you?" Steven asked, trembling. _Let me guess, _the darker recesses of his mind interjected, _next he's gonna say, 'I'm in the house with you?'_

"It hasn't been _that _long, has it, _Fadda_?" the voice teased. _Fadda.._...although it was a common term used by Steven's regular Sunday crowd to address him in a joking manner, there was nothing joking about the manner in which he had been addressed here.

"I know who you are," Steven said, not meaning it literally; he _did _know that voice...but right now, he couldn't put a name on it. It was awfully familiar. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," the voice whispered, sounding frustrated--the teeth of that voice's owner were audibly clicking and grinding together, as if in anticipation. "Don't go back there, whatever you do."

Steven felt his whole body go numb for a second. Was the person on the phone talking about the room back there, where the bloody trail lead? He took one more glance behind the counter, thinking about what any one of his favorite movie stars would do in a situation like this.

"What's wrong?" the voice said, notably worried. "Don't worry, I can see you. I already saw what's back there. I barely escaped. Don't go!"

_Wait just a minute!_ Steven's mind spoke up, and he felt his heart skip a beat. _I know who that is! Dammit, it's on the tip of my brain!_ "Wait," he said. "Who are you? Where is everybody?"

"Just get out of there," the voice said, still half-whispering. "Hurry! Before they find you!" And with that said, the caller hung up.

"Wait--" Steven said, failing to catch the caller in time. Slowly, he returned the handset to its cradle. What had that guy been talking about, "before they find you?" He couldn't have been talking about the car, could he? Not likely; he would probably have referred to the driver--driver_s--_if that were the case (in spite of the fact that Steven himself had come to think of the car as a conscious entity in and of itself; for if the driver(s) had intended to kill him, it/they could easily have gotten out and followed Steven up to the second floor of the drawbridge tower...but it/they hadn't, a decision Steven regarded as quite odd). But if not the car...then what? Was there something else here? Some other threatening force?

Before he could think of anything else, he remembered the cat-thing from the alley. Remembered the tentacle which had shot out from beneath its cover. Imagining something similar but much larger, more numerous and more threatening. Unable to drive the image from his mind, Steven turned back towards the entrance. He hastily exited through the glass doors, finding out by accident that all of the doors except the one he'd approached from outside were locked. Acknowledging his absurd luck thus far, he started down the stairs on the front stoop of town hall. Next stop, Police Station. If answers were waiting for him anywhere else in town, that was where they would be.

But the person on the phone wasn't the only one who seemed to be watching him; there was another entity, one he hadn't anticipated. As Steven put one foot in the road, intending to cross the street between _Cut-Rite _and the town hall, two headlights quietly illuminated far down the street to his left--almost two blocks--well-concealed behind a pair of dead cars. And an engine began to rev up.

_END OF CHAPTER 18_


	19. James, An Interlude

**Chapter 19**

**James -- An Interlude**

_"When the generals talk, you'd better listen to him_

_When the generals talk, you'd better do what he say."_

"When the Generals Talk," _Midnight Oil_

_(Red Sails in the Sunset)_

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_It's been so long...so long since the day everything changed._

_I can remember a time when we lived together, alive and well, before the illness set in. Before I did such a horrible thing. But, pardon the cliche, everything I did, I did for love, and for Her. It may not seem that way--the girl, and those men, they might not understand...but _I _understand, and _She_ understands, and that's all that matters. I can kill them if I have to, if She lets me. The way they look at me...it's the same way they _all _looked at me. The girl who was looking for her father, the crazy fat man...how like them I've become. I'm no longer myself. But is that really true? Was I _ever _myself? Who's to say what myself is? At first, I thought only I could know...but now that I've let Her onto me, let Her into my heart and my mind, She knows, too. She understands everything. So I'm not alone anymore; it doesn't matter what they say, as long as She's with me. As long as I have Her promise._

_I wish I could kill her, that stupid girl...I really do. I would like to rip that arrogant smirk off of her face. But that's Laurence's job--that's what She told me. At the same time, I _don't _want to kill her, though. It's something about her...something that reminds me of myself, in a time when I used to be myself. She's much more confident than I was._

_Soon I'll be able to see Her again, and She will tell me what to do. Without Her, I'd be lost in this insane world of never-ending twists and turns. Without Her, I'd still be misdirected, still trying to redeem myself. She helped me see that I am beyond redemption; from here, there is only servitude. The only meaning left to my existence is to serve and please Her, to carry out Her every whim. As long as She is happy, then I am happy. And that is all I care about._

_I can remember, back during the time when I was Uninformed. I met that woman, the one who wanted to die. I held her in contempt...what a hypocrisy. I held her in contempt, looked down on her as if she had no understanding of life, simply because she wanted to take her own. But perhaps the suicidial ones are the _only _ones with a true understanding of what life is? Or perhaps that is simply the rumination of a madman...but I don't think I'm mad. No, I think I'm quite sane. She's been quite angry with me lately, but as long as I know that Her happiness is still within my grasp, then I will be fine. I will not be happy until She is happy, but I am not worried yet. I have nothing about which to _be _worried. I can still kill them all, shoot them in the back or rip their brains out through their eye sockets, however it needs to be done. All I need is for Her to give the word. Until then...I wait. I wait, and I watch._

_I've been following the progress of the girl, Heather. It seems that she is content on following through with her original plan. She is going to try to meet her Center. I gave her to Laurence in hopes that he would do away with her, but that perverted idiot just picked her apart, toyed with her. Before he had taken things too far, that damn cop stepped in and pulled her out. Her mind is damaged, but not enough to keep her from her goal. She will walk that dark mile...until She gives me the word to blow her away. I did what I could, but She told me not to kill her. Not yet. So I improvised...I took out her eye. Now she can't read from the book. It probably won't help much--that ignorant detective will probably help her out, read it _to _her--but it will slow their progress until the time is right. I wish I knew when that was..._

_No. I can't allow myself to think like that. If I begin to question her decisions now, in this early hour, then how will I go on? How will I go on, knowing that I cannot fully trust her, in life or in death? I must not allow myself to think like that._

_I have also been keeping an eye on the other two, the rebel and the quiet one. So far, they seem to be minding their business--She has told me to ignore them for now--but it remains to be seen whether or not they will interfere with Her plan. If they do, I will kill them. I have similar reservations about the priest, and the other woman--the one with the child. She seems very disturbed to me--even less sane than the girl, Heather. I wonder if she will be trouble? It seems like She isn't worried, though, so I am not, either. But...for Her sake, I will keep an eye on the woman. She seems to be mixed up with that cult, somehow. I don't know how, but...she seems suspicious to me._

_There is one more thing I must do before I can see Her again. I must finish the cop. I almost had him, back there at the corner, but that girl...she caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting her to say those hurtful things. I think She was angry with me for falling back...but I am willing to try again. This time, I will not fail--this time, that cop is dead. Then She will tell me what to do next. Then I might be able to kill the girl, too. How I will enjoy killing her! I will not relish it, the way I relished Her death--at least, not for the same reasons--but I will definitely savor the look on her face as she slips away. The way her eyes, thought no longer there, will seem to lock onto mine, her mind and soul unwilling to believe that she has been had, that she will never meet her Center. The way they her face will grow empty, and cold, and eventually dead. Dead like the rest of her. I can't wait to end her. But yes, the cop, I must remember the cop. Once I end him, the other two will be driven apart. And it is then that I will strike and finish her off, that snotty little brat. That is when She will give me the order--of that I am certain._

_I might also mention the Father. That old cop is messing with him. I warned him--the Father is of no concern to us--but he's still sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong. He's still trying to change history. I might have to step in if things keep up the way they are going. I saw that those two were trying to help him, but he got scared and ran away...there are others like Them, but the others aren't as nice. And I won't be able to interfere if he allows Them to take him. I will be sad if that happens, for I almost like the Father. He is a good man, and he is the only one of these people that has come to town on this night without a selfish cause. Him, and perhaps the woman with child. I cannot understand her motives at this time, though, so I will not write her off just yet._

_Soon, I will have to go. I will have to leave this place, prepare my weapon, and fulfill my promise. I will not disappoint Her, not again. They cannot kill me, they cannot strike me down, with words or with valor. I am the instrument through which She is able to sing her song. And I will not be silenced--by the girl, or by anyone._

_She is calling me. I can hear her. She is telling me to go, to fulfill my promise, to uphold my end of the bargain. She is my Center, my Only, and I will do whatever it takes to keep her happy, so I will go. I will fulfill my promise. And I will keep her happy...until the end of eternity._

END OF CHAPTER 19/INTERLUDE


	20. Paint the Town Black

**Chapter 20**

**Paint the Town Black**

_"I see a red door and I want it painted black_

_No colors anymore, I want them to turn black_

_I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes_

_I have to turn my head until my darkness goes."_

"Paint It Black," _The Rolling Stones_

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Walking through the woods in the gradually blackening night, Walter couldn't shake the paranoid feeling that he was being watched. He'd been having it, off and on, ever since he'd awoken the other day with that 'tipping' sensation, but it seemed to be growing stronger, the closer he got to town.

_Probably,_ he mused, kicking dust up off of the unpaved path with shoes that had been clean and white only hours ago but were now turning a light dirty brown, _because whoever--or _what_ever--is watching me, is waiting for me there. In that town._ He looked up at the moon, which had begun to rise and was now sitting in the corner of the sky. Was that east? Or west? Or even north or south? It was impossible to tell; it had been years since he'd been here in these woods, and it was trouble enough trying to fend off the ghosts of his childhood that continued to chase him around inside his head. Finding direction wasn't really necessary, anway, since he was following the road. Though it would be nice in any case; it would provide the illusion that he had at least _some _control of the situation.

_I wish Henry were here,_ he thought, allowing the ghosts of the words to whisper past his lips. The mental image of wherever he had gone earlier--for he knew that he had _gone _there, and not simply seen it, it was not a matter of whether or not he had gotten there but _which part _of him had done so--was painted on the back of his mind, dismissed for the moment but not completely forgotten; to be perfectly honest, it had scared the living _hell _out of him, not because there had been anything there that had particularly scared him...but because there hadn't.

And because of the Other Walter's desparate admonition. _Do not fail. You can't afford to._ Fail what? What was his goal here, in this town? He'd come here because of Henry. Without Henry, he was as good as blind, with no idea of where to even begin. He didn't even know if he should still be in this place...or if he could leave, even if he wanted to, which he sort of did...but that admonition was not to be denied. For some reason, the Other Walter had been struck down, "relieved of his position." What did that mean, exactly? What position? He'd made it sound like he was in the military, or something...at the same time that the remark made things seem even more confusing, it also made Walter strangely more comfortable; it gave some level of order, of structure, to whatever was going on here. And order was something to which he desparately clung, especially after that strange vision.

_And it's not just Henry, either, _he thought, staring ahead into the black night, the sheltered moon barely bright enough to show him the ground twenty feet ahead. _It's the Other Walter, too. He's gone. Now it's just me, all by my lonesome. I've got to figure out what's going on here, and soon. I have the feeling that I'm running out of time._

About that he was right; it was about _how much _time he had left that he was sorely mistaken.

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After another twenty minutes of tiring hiking, Walter came to an area of the path that narrowed inward on either side and became lined with small stones, forming two parallel walls about two or three feet high. Not too far after this, the path ended in a wrought-iron gate about as high as Walter himself was. He figured he could climb it if need be, but it opened without much provocation. Walter stepped inside and found himself in a wide clearing, filled with dense black-ish fog (probably an illusion set on by the night--yeah, right there, he could see the moonlight shining through the fog, turning it a smoky gray). The gate clanged shut behind him, not too loud but enough so to startle him. He continued forward into the clearing, not sure what to expect--if this were a video game, he reckoned, this is where the boss fight would probably happen.

But no such "boss" appeared; instead, he saw something sticking out of the ground up ahead, perhaps some kind of small monolith. It was about the size of--

"A gravestone," he said out loud, approaching the stone. As he drew closer, several other such stones revealed themselves from their shelter within the fog, creeping up on him as if they were not gravestones but the denizens themselves, risen up from their eternal resting place beneath this sacred ground. He kneeled before the gravestone, not sure why he felt compelled to do so, and read the following: _Daniel Spooner, 1982-2001. _No inscription.

_I wonder why?_ Walter pondered, running his fingers over the inlaid letters. _Unless you were buried by someone who had nothing to say about you._ That was really sad, now that he thought of it--the idea that someone could wander this earth, build a life for him- or herself, then die and end up six feet beneath the ground with not a living soul to remember him or her in spite of his or her accomplishments. Only days later, it would be as if he or she had never existed. Shuddering, Walter rose to his feet and started across the graveyard, weaving around the gravestones. The grass crunched under his feet, apparently growing cold to suit the weather. Ever since that morning a thousand years ago, the weather had been unseasonably cold, as if it were changing to match Walter's own inner sensation.

At the other end of the graveyard was another stone wall, centered around another wrought-iron gate. This one, too, was unlocked, allowing Walter passage. On the other side, the unpaved path continued on into the deepening night. The breeze caressed his cheek, trying to lower his guard so it could bite him; he slapped it away.

The path curved around a tiny grove of trees and opened up into a wide dirt road, easily accessible from town with a small vehicle. To either side of the path, a very short wooden fence stood guard over a split yard, probably someone's property, maybe some kind of ranch. The sign hanging off of the left fence up ahead, reading _Silent Hill Ranch,_ confirmed this rumination. Beside it lay several freshly-cut logs, stacked in a pyramid shape. Walter found the shape ominous and threatening for some reason, and passed it by quickly.

Up ahead, a tunnel passed over the path--probably the road into town. Walter passed under it and, on the other side, found himself between a steep but not very high hill, to the left, and a fenced-in trailer park on the right. Squinting into the night, he couldn't see any lights on in the trailer park.

At long last the path approached a sharp left turn, which lead Walter into a wide hallway made of green wood, a sort of makeshift tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, a metal fence-gate, bathing in a dim swath of light from a single ceiling-mounted fixture directly overhead, barred further access. It didn't rise to the ceiling--there might have been enough room for Walter to climb over--but all the same, the padlock had not been firmly fixed around the chains which tied the fence to the gate, and after fiddling with it for just a moment Walter was able to slide the padlock off of the chain, pull the chain off of the fence and wrench it open. Less than a minute later, he was out of the makeshift tunnel and on the pedestrian road leading into the South Vale area of Silent Hill.

The road curved around a fenced-in construction area on the left, straightened out past a patch of dirty grass (on both sides) with a blue pickup truck parked on it (on the left), and finally connected to a wide street area.

He was here. After half a week and several hours of extravagant effort and just as much luck, he was here, in Silent Hill. The town where this had ultimately started...and the town where it would end, he was sure. Now, all he had to do was find Henry and resume the effort to get to the bottom of whatever was going on here. Looking up and to the left he saw a telephone pole, off of which a narrow green sign protruded. On the sign were the words _Sanders St._

_So...where to?_

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

So...where to?

Thump.

_"Unnnhh..."_

_Wherever it was, it was cold. And dark. He couldn't see anything around him. He could only feel the cold ground, pressing against his body as he lay on it, devoid of energy. He felt as if he hadn't slept in a year. It was the feeling one might have on the first day of a complicated tech school course; _I must get up, I know, but I can't. I _want _to get up, but I _can't. _I just _can't._

_"Where...where am I?"_

_He held his eyes shut, not even sure he would be able to open them if he pleased, but forced himself to rise to a sitting position, his legs crossed. With one hand he covered his forehead, sheltering his eyes from the cold and stinging rain. He was able to first blink and then finally open his eyes, and what he saw was...well, the only safe way to put it would be that it was not what he'd expected._

_"What is this?" he asked, rising to his feet. The exhaustion which had swept him off of his feet was now creeping away, sliding into the night like a thief who has made his steal and now seeks only to escape before he is caught, and he was able to hold his eyes open...though he still desired sleep. "What...where is this?"_

_It was too dark to see much of anything, but this much was apparent: He was standing in a dark, dank hallway, surrounded on all sides by some weak reinforcement--moist plywood, maybe even cardboard in some places. In the distance, unidentifiable sounds provided an ambience better left in nightmares, among them the _thump _which had first awakened him._

_He looked down at himself, as if expecting to see someone else--his hands, still thankfully his own, were dirty and brown, presumably from lying on the ground. Why had he dozed off in a place like this? It was filthy, probably disease-ridden. Who knows what kind of vermin made their nests in places like this?_

THUMP.

_He cried out, startled, and felt his body rush with adrenaline. This place was familiar; he was pretty sure he'd been here before, either in a dream or in reality--it didn't matter which--but he couldn't recall for the life of him when, why, or how. Looking around, he saw that he was at the end of the hallway, surrounded on three sides by this decrepit building material. Above, there did not seem to be a ceiling--not one low enough to touch, at least--but it was impossible to tell in this light (rather, lack thereof). He took a step forward, towards the open hallway (and presumably, the only way out of here) and heard a _splotch!_ as his shoe landed in a puddle of some thin liquid. Water, probably. The ground was soaked here, and it was only now that he realized why he was so cold--the entire left side of his body was soaked, his shirt and pants caked with aged dirt, probably from lying on the ground. The air in here wasn't really that cold, in all likelihood, but being moist from head to toe probably contributed to the temperature._

_Not sure what else to do--or of anything else, for that matter--he took another step forward...and another...and soon found himself walking, slowly but surely, down the hallway. With only his arms to guide him, he walked close to the left wall, once again allowing his mind to wonder where the hell he was. Now that his mind was starting to clear up--unfortunately not accompanied by his short-term memory--he was beginning to get a little irritated. He had a feeling that he could grow to be pissed in time, if this strangeness continued._

_Soon, he smacked into a shaky barrier of some kind. His hands reflexively shot out before him and, in doing so, punched a hole in the barrier, which was really just another of these meager walls, soaked from some unknown incident, probably a flood of some sort. He wondered if he was in the basement of a house, or something. Maybe a mansion? And if so, why such shoddy construction?_

_With this thought came the possibility that, if there was a building over his head, the structure could collapse on him, leaving him trapped down here. Probably to die. This thought did not comfort him._

_"Focus," he said, and bit his lower lip. He felt along the wall and was able to make a left turn, into another long hallway. He could tell it was long because, up ahead, a very faint light source flickered like a thin spider-web of cracks in this solid darkness. It wasn't bright enough to illuminate much of the hallway, but it was enough to improve his depth-perception enough to judge the distance. He started down this hallway. About halfway down, he was startled into tripping over his own feet by another loud _THUMP!

_"What..." He pivoted, not sure from where the sound was coming. It was fairly close, but not too close, not yet. That last one had echoed, though. This place must be larger than he'd thought. Worried enough to know that he should remain calm for now and work this through, he pressed on, his feet squelching against the moist flooring._

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

_What..._

Walter turned at the sound of the voice, his heart thudding in his chest. "Hello?" he called, his hands clenching nervously. "Anybody there?"

Apparently not.

Oh, well. He continued west down Sanders Street, eventually coming to a turn. The streetcorner sign told him that turning left or right would place him on _Lindsey Street._

"Oh, hell," he said out loud, throwing his arms up in the air. "What the hell am I thinking? There's no damn way I'm going to find him like this. I'm fucking blind!" He turned back down Sanders Street. "Hear that, wherever you are? Whoever you are? I can feel you watching me, you know. I know you're there." He turned and looked up into the sky, past the moon and into the heavens. "_What the hell do you want me to do, huh?"_

To this, the heavens offered no response.

"Yeah, you _better _shut up," he said, and folded his arms. He didn't even have a map of this place; sure, he'd been here forever ago, but he had rarely come into town without one of the higher priests. He had no real memory of the town's layout at all, except for the basic district format. His knowledge of his location ended with the term _South Vale._ With all that he knew, Henry might as well be on the moon.

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What the hell do you want me to do, huh?  
_He'd heard that voice again, the same one as earlier. Just now, he'd heard it. It sounded like...but could it be? Him, too? If so, where was he? Was he the one making those thumping noises?_

_Finally, he reached the light source at the end of the hall. It was nothing grand, just a flourescent tube with several cracks in its glass cover. The filaments were still there, but in shoddy condition._

Thump.

_There it was, again. This time, it sounded farther away. For some reason, that disheartened him. If it had gone farther away, then there must have been somewhere else for it to go...and that would mean that this place was large, indeed. He felt the reassuring shape of his gun, still stuck into his waistband, and tried to smile. He couldn't bring himself to do so._

_"Hello?" he called. "Walter? Are you there?"_

_Silence. But wait...wait, there was something else, too._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Hello? Walter? Are you there?_

Walter twitched, his blood running cold at the mention of his name. He hadn't been here ten minutes, and already this place was screwing with his head. "Who's there?" That voice...it sounded like Henry's. But it also sounded muffled. What was this? What was going on here? "Henry? Is that you? I'm here! Where are you?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry? Is that you? I'm here! Where are you?  
_"I don't know," he called back. So it _was _Walter. He'd caught up with him, wherever he was. "I don't even remember how I got here. I just...woke up here. What happened?"_

I don't know, _Walter called back. _I had this freaky vision, dream, whatever, and then you were just gone. I figured you'd gone for help, or something._ It was strange, because at the same time that the voice was a physical, objective thing, sensed by his ears, it also seemed to be in his _head._ As if they were communicating telepathically, or something. But that was crazy._

_Or was it?_

_"I'm in a dark place," he said. "Some kind of building, I think. It's wet, and I hear something moving."_

Just stay put, _Walter called. _I'll try to find you.

_"I don't have time," he called back. "Whatever is out there...it's getting closer. I think it might be...I think it might be something like that thing I saw in the mines."_

Just stay put, _Walter insisted. _Are you underground, or above ground?  
_"I don't know."_

Great...just great. Well, I'll look around here. Just...be careful, okay? I'll come to you as soon as I can.  
_"Fine," he said, and started down the hallway again. "But hurry, okay?"_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn't know exactly where Henry was, no...but at least now he had something to go on. A dark, wet place...a cave, maybe? No, he'd said he thought it was a building. Perhaps some kind of basement? He thought it might be close by, because he could hear Henry's voice...but at the same time, he could _feel _Henry's voice, right in the middle of his brain, as if they were speaking with their minds, or something. And Walter knew better than to place all of his faith in his senses as long as he was in this town; it was just as likely that Henry was on the other side of the world right now. As much as the thought disheartened Walter, he embraced the idea that Henry was probably not somewhere very close, and he started down the sidewalk, opting to turn right onto Lindsey Street. Without the moonlight to guide him, Walter really _would _be blind; the fog rushed out of the darkness at him, seeming to be blown from some unknown source--Walter imagined a giant fan at the center of the universe, fog spewing from it like foam from the mouth of a rabid animal.

In the distance, he heard a loud _Thump!_ It wasn't close--he could tell by the echo that it was quite a ways away--but all the same, it was unsettling. Something was out there, in the night. Something _big._ He couldn't tell if it was coming this way, but remembering his little 'dream' made him assume the worst; he imagined some kind of giant metallic behemoth, galloping around on gi-normous satanic cloven-hooves and swallowing up everything into the eternal Nothing. He knew that this was only his overactive imagination at work...but after the lecture he'd given Henry about how anything was possible here, he wasn't entirely ready to disbelieve it, either. He had only his desire to find Henry and get to the bottom of this to drive him on in spite of his nerve-racking imaginings.

Passing by a couple of shuttered garage areas to his right, Walter came to another intersection; to the left, Lindsey turned off onto Katz, and to the right, another small unpaved path continued off into the fog-saturated darkness. Walter looked down this path for a long time...glanced to the left, at the Katz turnoff...and opted to take a right. Figuring that a dirt road would probably take him to a dark, wet place faster than a street would, he sped up to a moderate jog.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

_When at last he found the source of the noises--the loud, formerly distant thumps--Henry wasn't sure whether to be relieved or further disturbed._

_The end of the barely-illuminated hallway had opened onto a maze-like area, riddled with passages and faint lighting, and it had taken him several minutes to work his way past the dead-ends and find the true path, but at long last he had found himself in a wide, square room with one single bright lightbulb, swinging from a wire in the center of the room. On the wall directly to the left from where he'd come in, Henry found a wide, oblong metal rectangle that appeared to be nailed down at the corners. It looked to be about ten or twelve feet high and six or seven wide. The first resounding _THUMP!_ which had shaken the the rectangle from inside, rattling it, had startled a cry of terror from Henry, for he had expected it to give way and spill forth some monstrosity. But it held fast, barely moved by the tremendous resistance from the other side. Afterward, when Henry realized that it wasn't going to give way, he approached the rectangle and placed his hand against it...and immediately pulled it away. Everything else in this place was cold, dead, aged...but the door was warm. Whatever was on the other side, bashing the metal rectangle which he now knew to be some kind of sealed-off doorway, was warm with a malevolent life all its own. Some kind of being was in there, trapped, sealed off. A being Henry was thankful that he would not have to contend with. He imagined that it might have many tentacles, maybe as many as a thousand, each with hundreds of tiny sucklers on it that would latch onto its prey, inject it with acid to liquify it, and then maybe suck the remains back into the thing's body through some complicated veinous system._

_At the other end of the room, on the wall directly across from the hall by which he had entered, another moderately-lit passage continued on into the darkness. Henry reached the edge of this hall, glanced over his shoulder at the metal door one last time, and disappeared into the shadows._

THUMP.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The path continued on for a short while before a broad but rusted metal fence obstructed the way. It was several feet high--maybe as many as nine or ten--and shut. But when Walter stuck his fingers into the mesh and jiggled it, the gate fell open, unlocked. Walter blessed his luck and jogged down the path. He passed another wide dirt area, similar to the ranch he'd come by on his way into town, and eventually came to a tunnel beneath a narrow overpass...but dilapidated and run-down as it appeared to be, a complicated wooden scaffold prevented him from getting into the tunnel. He was starting to have a stronger feeling that Henry was somewhere in this direction--perhaps it was the "never-ending path syndrome," a sensation he'd often experienced when playing video games with a lot of hidden secrets--you were looking for an item or key or something, and you finally found a door you hadn't tried yet, and the door opened onto a hallway, right? Well, you went down the hallway and found a dead-end...but if you, say, bombed the wall, you would find another hidden path, and this would fill you with hope, with the certainty that you were getting closer to something new, something you hadn't found yet. And this repetition of finding hidden areas, all of which ultimately branched off from that door you opened, continued until you finally reached the end of the path...only to find that the item hidden there was not a key or a secret thing but another pack of bombs, or something. Walter felt that he might be experiencing a similar sensation now--he was approaching a strange place, one that undoubtedly would take him to an even stranger place...but that didn't necessarily mean that it would be the same place that Henry was. He had to prepare himself for that possibility, lest he lower his guard and be his own undoing.

Wiping these needlessly complicated thoughts from his mind, Walter grabbed a board on the scaffolding with both hands and pulled. When that wasn't enough to wrench it loose, he put his foot on the wall to the side of the tunnel and pushed. Just when he was beginning to think that the board wouldn't pop loose, it did, and it sent him crashing to the ground from his overexpended effort. Climbing to his feet, he tossed the torn board aside and went to work on the next board.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Henry was starting to get a serious case of Deja vu; this was turning into a repeat of what had occurred in the mines earlier, minus the pursuit from that Metalhead thing (for that much, at least, he could be thankful). He came to the end of the moderately-lit corridor and came to a slightly smaller (radially speaking) one, even less illuminated. The three evenly-spaced flourescent ceiling fixtures were cracked in many places, and as he passed them by he could see that there were actually two more of them, battered and cracked beyond use. He wondered what had occurred to damage them so, and then decided that he would rather not know. This was one of the few places in the world where mysteries were, more often than not, better left alone. He remembered a time, way back when he had gotten his first camera in the tenth grade, back when he'd still had mixed feelings about becoming either a reporter or a photographer, that he would have scoffed at such an idea...but with age comes experience, as he had learned not too long ago in spite of the fact that, deep down, he had always known. He mused that the only reason he was even here had to do with one of the greatest popular mysteries of all time, perhaps one that could warrant a novel if it were ever solved (and if that solution could be supported with proof), and could only laugh uneasily at the irony of these thoughts, and at the fact that they should coincide as they had._

THUMP.

_Louder? No; he was pretty sure that was his imagination. Sort of how, if you stared at the light coming in through the blinds in the morning long enough, you might think you saw it moving slightly across the bed, or how if you stared at the minute-hand on a clock long enough, you'd swear up-and-down that you could see it moving. Yeah, that sounded about right._

_Feeling better, but still trembling a bit (partially from the cold, and partially from the sheer stress of it all), he pressed on, driven by the hope of seeing sunlight once again...hell, who was he kidding? He would even settle for moonlight._

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After almost ten minutes had passed, Walter had worked his way through the most part of the scaffolding. Now, there was a passage that might just be wide enough for him to squeeze through, but that was not why he had stopped. He had stopped because he had finally gotten a glimpse of something on the far end of the tunnel, completely obscuring whatever was on the other side from view.

It was another one of those static fields, like the one he'd seen in his dreams. Except this one was much bigger. It was in a hole, as the others had been--at the end of the tunnel--but at the same time, there was something very different about this one. He couldn't tell what it was just by looking at it (the irony of which was that he could tell that there was something _different _about it just by looking at it), but he knew_ that _it was. He figured it had something to do with the dream-versus-reality debate which currently plagued his mind, regarding the Other Walter.

He felt that, if only he understood the nature of these strange static portals, he might have been on the edge of something big, some key factor in the mystery of what was going on in this town, what was going on in his own _head,_ some great and ultimate truth, some giant piece to the great jigsaw puzzle of What The Hell Is Going On, but such an understanding escaped him--it wasn't much beyond a deep intution--so he could only wonder what great revelation had eluded him, perhaps forever. Later, when things had relaxed a bit and he had a chance to sit down and think this through, things might have a chance to clarify themselves...but somehow, Walter doubted even that.

It surprised him (and scared him, a little) to realize that, during the time this had been shooting through his head, he had climbed over the ruined scaffolding and now stood before the great static field, his face only a few feet from the edge. He was actually still walking towards it when he realized this and forced himself to back away until his back was to the unusual scaffolding.

_What is this? _he thought, unable to take his eyes off of the static vortex. _It's like in my dreams, my 'visions'...but I'm really here. This is not a dream!_

He glanced around the narrow tunnel, feeling as though he had just shaken off the effect of a powerful spell, perhaps that of sleep...and was distracted by a bright gleam of metal, coming from the edge of the tunnel. Intrigued, Walter leaned towards the source of the glow--a pile of junk against the right-hand wall, just inside the scaffolding--his eyes squinting with effort, and he saw that it wasn't a pile of junk as he had originally thought, but the body of a person, wrapped in tattered rags and newspapers. Homeless? Probably. Either sleeping or dead, and Walter doubted the guy was sleeping. He knelt over the body, seeking the bright flash which had caught his eye. He found it--a gun, lying on the ground just next to one of the corpse's outstretched hands. Had this person used it? Probably. On something else, or on himself? Walter didn't want to know; the face was currently obscured by the rags, rolled over against the wall of the tunnel, and Walter had no desire to flip it over and see for himself. Instead he picked up the gun, afraid to be thankful for it before he had the chance to check it for ammo. It was a standard pistol; he slid the clip out, counting twelve nine-millimeter rounds inside. Not much, but it was better than going empty-handed--always assuming the thing fired. There was no way to tell how old it might be, or how useful as a result.

"Well," Walter mumbled under his breath, rising to his feet once again as he turned to face the static vortex, "I guess it's now or never. Henry, don't wait up for me,

okay?" And then he was enveloped in static.

White.

More white.

Bright white.

_Bright _white.

_Head hurts..._

_So _white...

_Ow...damn it!_

_It's so white..._

_There's nothing here...wait! Wait!_

Too late.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Henry was starting to get pissed, partially because he'd thought he was out of the clear when he'd escaped the mines earlier and partially because he was pretty sure he was being followed, and the only alternative to being scared shitless was to be angry. He still had the gun that he'd taken from the security guard earlier, but even that wasn't enough to comfort him when weighed against the oddities of this place. He continued to hear those loud _THUMP _noises from far behind, and once, a few minutes ago, he was pretty sure that he'd heard a loud, metallic _CLANG,_ but now the thumps actually seemed to be _louder _than they had been a while ago. Henry didn't understand how that could be--the thing had been trapped behind that door--but then, it occurred to him that there might be more than one of those things, whatever they were...and all of them might not be trapped behind steel panels._

_Perhaps there was another such creature, lurking these tunnels, searching for him? Henry shuddered at the unpleasant thought. His mind kept falling back on what Walter had told him earlier, outside the gravesite in the woods, about how _anything _was possible in this town, anything his mind could conjure. And right now, his mind was conjuring an image of a massive blistered worm with a thousand teeth and antennae with pincers on the end, and infrared eyes used for hunting in dark places such as this...no matter how much he tried to drive the image from his mind, he couldn't._

Wait! Wait!

_From above, that had come. Up above, the voice of Walter. Henry looked up._

_"Walter? Is that you?"_

_No response. He was probably tied up right now. He could only imagine to whom or what Walter had issued that command...then it registered that Walter might have addressed Henry himself, and so he paused._

_"Do you want me to wait?" he called, looking up, not sure what he was expecting to see. "Where are you? Walter? Are you okay?"_

_Again, nothing. He would just have to keep moving._

Tic-tic-tic-tic.

_Henry froze. What was that?_

Tic-tic-tic-tic.

_A very faint sound, coming from the tunnel far behind him...it sounded very odd, very numerous, almost hivelike in its intensity. Henry was unable to place it. It sounded almost like a bunch of toothpicks being scraped against a metallic surface, and for some reason this once again conjured the image of the mutant worm in his mind, this time with thousands of tiny feelers._

_Just to be sure, just in case, he slowly drew his gun and took the safety off, holding it to his chest with both arms._

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Walter awoke in a strange place, a dark hallway, standing up but feeling as though he might come tumbling down to his knees at any moment. Going through the static vortex had severely affected his strength, filling him with the sense that he had not slept well in a very long time. He started to take a step forward...and nearly fell over, as there was no ground on which his foot could come to rest. He teetered there for a moment, on the edge of his balance, and was finally able to grasp an object to the right of him and steady himself. The object turned out to be the frame of a door, probably the door through which he had entered. It didn't matter where it lead, really, as it appeared to be sealed shut; it would not give even a single inch in its metal frame, and there was not a knob or a handle, though there was a place were one such object might once have been, presumably._

_The light in here was very poor, coming only from a place far below, a series of unevenly-spaced flourescent tubes. Now that his eyes were beginning to adjust, Walter could see that he was not standing in a hallway, as he had first interpreted, but on a kind of catwalk, hundreds of feet up in the air, about three feet wide. To his left, the walk continued for a ways before branching off into the darkness in several parallel directions. To the right was the unopenable door, seeming to condemn him for having the balls to walk through the static vortex. Hundreds of feet below was a vast chamber, riddled with narrow passageways that, from here, looked as if they might belong in an ant farm, for they were as tiny. In the distance, coming from far below, he could hear a faint, unnerving sound: _Tic-tic-tic-tic._ The closest thing to which he could relate the sound was that of the keys on an ancient typewriter, being henpecked slowly but with determination--for the determination in that sound was unmistakable. It was that of a starving predator, searching for food, an atmosphere of menace, of malice, of ill intent surrounding it like body odor._

_"Henry?" Walter called out, not sure if he should but unable to think of anything else to do. "Henry, are you here?"_

_Below, there was the sound of sliding metal, and soon after he not only heard but _felt _Henry, felt his presence enter the room, as a computer game might register two players near the same location with a little colored dot or arrow._

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Henry came to what appeared to be the end of the tunnel, at long last: A very tall, very wide door (about six feet by ten) made of strong steel. He felt around in the darkness for the handle--the lights had departed the tunnel about forty or fifty feet back, leaving him in almost pitch blackness again--and was finally able to slide his hand into a tiny inlay, which he used to pull the door open with a loud, resounding _skreeek!_ of metal sliding on metal. It seemed that the door was too large for its frame, for he was unable to get it to shut again. He simply left it ajar, turning to see what awaited him on this new side of the door. What he saw caused his heart to sink a bit._

_He was not at the end of the tunnel at all; in fact, the tunnel simply widened out here, and became more mazelike than before. Up ahead, the tunnel split into two directions, left and right, with another of those flourescent tubes stuck to the ceiling right at the split. Henry covered his eyes and wished silently that he were back in the graveyard, creepy as it had been...just anywhere but here, anything but this crap again._

_"Hello?" he called, cupping his arms around his mouth. "Hello? Walter? Anybody? Is anybody here?"_

_From behind him came that _tic-tic-tic-tic _sound, still a ways off. Then, from above: "Henry? Is that you?"_

_"Walter?" Henry rushed forward, looking up towards the sound of the voice. "It's me! I'm down here! Where are you?"_

_"I'm up here," Walter responded, either being a smart-ass or just completely oblivious of how useless his information was._

_"Where's 'up here?'" Henry responded, continuing farther into the tunnel. "How did you get up there?"_

_"I don't know," Walter said. "I just came through this weird tunnel, and there was this bright...thing at the end, like a portal or something, and...how did you get down there?"_

_"I just woke up here," Henry called back, disheartened. Great, so neither of them knew where they were or how they'd gotten there. What now? Walter couldn't jump down here from up there, it was too far--at least he figured so, judging from the sound of his voice. He knew that he probably shouldn't trust his senses too much, but on the other hand, he didn't want to place too much trust in the idea that he _couldn't_ trust his senses, either. "I can't see you!"_

_"I think I can see you," Walter said. "Wave your hands up in the air!"_

_Henry did so without hesitation, looking up into the blackness. He felt ridiculous, like a child pretending to wave an airplane landing beacon._

_"Yeah, there you are," Walter said. "Look up!"_

_Henry already was looking up, but he still couldn't see anything. It was too dark up there. Was there another floor to this place? If so, he thought getting out of here might be more trouble than either of them had expected thus far. "I still can't see you. Do you have a light?"_

_"No," Walter said. "Look, just keep trying to find a way out, okay? I'll do what I can to reach you from here."_

_Henry opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, he heard that _tic-tic-tic-tic _sound again, and this time it was accompanied by a much louder _CLANG _than before. It sounded very close, definitely closer than before._

_"Henry," Walter said from above, sounding very uncomfortable. "Henry, you still there? I think you'd better get moving, right now."_

_He didn't have to say that twice; Henry started down the hallway once again. "Is something there?" he called up. "I can't see, but I heard something. I think I'm being followed."_

_"You are," Walter said, freezing Henry's heart. Here he was, underground and the subject of some unseen thing's pursuit once again. He knew that history had a habit of repeating itself, but this soon? The irony was what made it all the more terrible. "There should be a branch in the path up ahead. You should take a right there, and quick."_

_Henry did so without question. "What is it, Walter?"_

_"I don't entirely know," Walter said._

_------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_And that was the truth; he _didn't _rightly know. He could see the thing coming through the tunnel, not too far behind Henry. It wasn't that big, but it was still threatening. It was some kind of long, segmented thing, probably a worm--he couldn't get a very good glimpse of it, as it continued to wade in and out of the small pools of light afforded by the battered flourescent fixtures. He could see that each segment was an awkward round shape, probably some kind of deformed oval. The head of it seemed to consist only of a large circle--no eyes, no ears, no mouth--with a small triangular pyramid shape resting on the top, almost like a child's strap-on party hat. There appeared to be some kind of symbol on the front of this shape, but Walter couldn't tell for sure. The only thing he _could _tell was that the thing posed a significant threat to Henry as long as he remained down there with it._

_"Okay, let's see," he mumbled, tracing what little of the maze-like path he could see with his finger. He was going to have to guide Henry through the maze, serving as his spotter, and that meant that there would be no room for mistakes; if he lead Henry to a dead-end, then that thing was going to get him, no doubt, and that was one death Walter didn't want to be responsible for. "Take a left at the end of this path, and ignore the next branch you see--keep going straight!"_

_He could see Henry moving frantically, occasionally glancing behind him, probably trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of his pursuer. Walter wanted to tell Henry that it wasn't a good idea, but he knew that he wouldn't have been able to keep himself from looking back if it had been him in that situation instead of Henry, so he kept his mouth shut, opting to focus on finding a safe path for Henry. It wasn't even enough that the path was difficult to see; Henry continued to disappear in and out of sight, appearing for a second in one of the small ponds of light, then disappearing once again as darkness flooded in around him. Not too far behind, the worm-thing continued after him, slow but steady, with unmistakable determination._

Hurry up, you doof, _Walter commanded with his mind, as if trying to will the command into physical reality. _Hurry up, it's getting closer!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Henry followed Walter's commands, taking turns when they were necessary and ignoring them when they weren't. But he didn't seem to be any closer to getting out when he heard the _tic-tic-tic-tic _noise again. It was a little closer, not by much but still in the same hall as Henry. He thought he'd figured out what that metallic clang had been earlier--he thought it had probably been the door he'd left ajar, the metal one, being torn off of its hinges by the thing that was chasing him._

_"Henry!" Walter's voice came from above, jolting him out of his daze. "Take a left up ahead, and then go straight past the next branch. I can't see past there--there aren't any lights--but everything else is a dead end!"_

_Below, Henry was trying to comply, but he seemed to be confused. Instead of taking a left, he took a right, hesitated, then turned back to the right just before Walter would have said something._

_"You okay down there?" Walter hollered. He was a nervous wreck, himself...but he could only imagine how Henry must feel. Knowing that something was tailing him, his imagination must be running wild...or maybe not. Walter had no idea how Henry worked, in spite of the almost ceaseless chatter between the two from the time they'd met to the time they'd separated. For all he knew, Henry _had _no imagination._

_These thoughts were immediately swept from his mind, though, when he saw Henry trip and fall facedown into the blackness. He could still see Henry--there didn't seem to be a hole into which he had fallen--but all the same, he felt his nerves grinding. "Henry!" he shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth like a makeshift megaphone. "Get up! It's coming!"_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Henry had hit the floor before he'd even felt his consciousness leaving him, momentarily as he had. When he came to his senses seconds later, it was to the sound of Walter's urgent commands. Henry immediately climbed to his feet, already moving forward in spite of his distracted efforts to wipe the dirty mess off of his clothes--it seemed as if the entire floor of this place was leaking, perhaps from some underground reservoir. Could he be in the mines, somewhere? He supposed so, in spite of how different this place looked...what with the metal panel on the wall back there, though, it seemed more like he was neither above-ground nor underground but in an entirely different kind of place altogether. He couldn't imagine where such a place might exist in relation to the rest of the world, but he didn't have to._

_After he'd taken the left and passed the second branch he came to, he heard an awful sound from behind him--not awful in a supernatural or paranormal way, just extremely unpleasant--that reminded him of nails on a chalkboard which has been left outdoors to be ruined in the hurricane season. It was that _tic-tic-tic-tic _sound, but it was much louder and much clearer than before. Whatever was making that noise was gaining serious ground on him. Apparently, it was pretty damned fast. He clutched his pistol tightly to his chest, making sure that it was ready to fire if the situation demanded as much. Pressing on, he found himself in a corridior completely devoid of illumination, artificial or natural._

_From above, Walter made it known that he could see neither Henry nor the ground ahead of him. From here on out, it seemed, Henry would be on his own. Knowing this, and feeling his heart sink so deep he thought he might have to take some Immodium to keep it from coming out with his next meal, he started to run. He knew it was a bad idea--to run was to allow panic to set in--but the thing behind him seemed to defy all logic, all reason. It was not to be walked away from; it was to be _run _away from._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_"Shit," Walter exclaimed, biting his lower lip. He knew he had to help Henry--if allowed to proceed on his own, Henry would surely die--but he had no idea _how. _He turned to his left, towards the part of the catwalk that branched off into the darkness, and realized that he would probably have to navigate a maze of his own in order for the two of them to come out of here together. He wasn't sure if there was anything down there, but the mere fact that whatever lay down that path was unknown to him seemed to give him the hope that he might find _something._ He started off in that direction, unable to run for fear of taking a tumble off of the catwalk but unable to walk slowly enough to maintain comfortable balance--there was no _time _for comfort, his mind bellowed, as if it had become a separate conscious entity from himself--and before he had traveled too far, he realized that it did not branch of in five directions, or six, or even seven. In fact, it did not branch at all. It ended abruptly in approximately fourteen dead-ends, fourteen drop-offs._

_"Motherf..." Walter mumbled, stepping closer to the edge of the nearest break-off. Looking down, he could not see a thing--as with the majority of the maze in which Henry was trapped, there was only darkness below; if there were any flourescent tubes down there, they were damaged beyond use. Cursing under his breath, Walter glanced anxiously around him, searching for something, _anything, _that might offer a chance of getting to Henry before that thing in the maze did. Just as he was about to give up, he saw such a thing._

_Approaching the end of this break-off, Walter thought he could see something in the darkness, just a few feet away. Past the point where the break-off ceased and became the abyss, there seemed to be the shadow of some other walk, perhaps the rest of this one--perhaps this whole mass had been connected at some point, and had been disconnected by some strange incident. There was only one choice, and Walter really didn't like it. But he opted to try the jump, anyway._

_"Here goes nothing," he said, crossing the index and middle fingers on both of his hands. He backed up about six feet, to the vertex of the fourteen break-offs, and, putting one foot in front of the other as carefully as could be managed while gathering momentum, he propelled himself forward. If he took even one too many or too few steps before making the jump, there was a good chance that he would go tumbling helplessly into the chasm below, probably to strand himself in the same maze as Henry. He would have to do his best to time the jump perfectly...and the rest would be up to luck._

_Just as he reached the edge of the break-off, he felt it creak beneath him, bending, and for a moment he feared that it would break off of the structure before he'd had the chance to jump off, hurling him into the blackness below before he'd even lifted his feet into the air, but it held long enough for him to jump off. Of whether or not it broke afterward, Walter was unsure, but to be honest, he didn't care; for the two full seconds during which he was floating in the air, gliding over the chasm (or perhaps into it), he was filled with the surety that he hadn't actually seen anything across the gap at all, that it had only been a trick of the nonexistent lighting and that he would fall down into the abyss to face death or something worse...so his heart practically leapt from his chest to his throat when he felt his foot connect with solid metal on the other side of the gap._

_The catwalk _did _continue on this side._

_"Damn," Walter said under his breath, feeling his heart reverbirating in his chest like the bass woofer of an over-amped sound system, feeling his eardrums bulging with tension. His whole body seemed to be pulsating in perfect time, with perfectly rehearsed rhythm, as if it had been preparing for a situation like this for eons. The whole process sped up when Henry occurred to him once again, and it was all he could to to continue down the walk without tripping over his own feet and falling off, in spite of the lucky jump he had been granted by the powers that be._

_After reaching a spot about twenty feet from the jump, Walter realized that his footsteps had begun to make a different sound than before. No more were they a series of metallic thuds, but rather dull, wooden thumps. Tapping his foot to the side of the walk, he realized that the ground appeared to have widened out--for now. He would still have to be careful--there was absolutely no light in here whatsoever._

_"Oof!" Walter started to cry out, but the noise was muffled when his face collided with some dense object, obstructing the path directly in front of him. Feeling around, he realized that it was a studded metal rectangle of some kind, and when his right hand came to rest around a smooth knob--and, beneath that, a key-shaped hole--he realized that it was a door._

_It was also locked._

_"Shit." Walter looked around vainly, as if doing so would actually assist in the effort to locate a key or other such device with which to unlock this door--_

_Wait...a key. That was it!_

_Feeling around in his pockets, he was suddenly and violently disheartened. He was sure that he'd dropped the key on the doll chain when his hand failed to establish contact with it...but after a few additional seconds of rooting, lo and behold, it turned up. Odd, how unfortunately wide his pockets seemed to be in spite of how tight they were. No matter--he had to unlock the door. He felt for the hole beneath the handle, aligned the key with it, and pressed._

_It didn't fit._

_"No," Walter said, trying to force the key. He turned it slightly, trying not to bend it but unable to calm himself enough to slow down, and cursed again when he realized that it was not the right key. The doll-chain key was cylindric in shape, with two small teeth at the end, one with a triangular shape and one with a canted rectangle shape. The keyhole was smaller, and square-shaped. "No, no," Walter reiterated, frustrated and hopeless._

You have more than one key,_ he felt the ghost of a thought whisper from the back of his mind, beyond all of the other things which currently troubled him, presiding over them like an insane king and yet remaining in the shadows. _Just check your pockets again.

_Feeling around, he discovered that he did indeed have another key--the key he'd gotten when he'd traveled to that strange other world in the graveyard. It was the one he'd found taped to the back of the letter left to him by the Other Walter. Without checking to see if it was the right key, he drove it straight home...and felt it turn the tumbler, releasing the lock. Home-free!_

Well, not yet,_ he assured himself. _Still gotta find Henry. _Pushing the door inward on its hinges, he almost tripped and fell down the staircase on the other side--there was no light here, either--but that wasn't what pissed him off. What pissed him off was that, in stumbling, he'd dropped the key. He heard it clatter down the steps, coming to rest at some unknown location along the way. Running to the bottom of the stairs (there were fourteen), hoping that he wouldn't need it, he found himself pressed up against another metal door, just like the one through which he'd just come, with a similar keyhole to boot._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_This hall was devoid of branches or pathways of any kind; the walls had come together to the point at which they were close enough together for Henry to keep his hands on both of them at the same time, simply by stretching his arms out slightly to either side. He estimated that he had probably two or three feet on either side of him, if that._

_"Walter?" he called, not bothering to look up--he knew he wouldn't be able to see anything, for the last of the light had vanished into the maze behind him. "Walter? Are you there?"_

_Apparently not._

_Sighing, trying to breathe slowly to calm the panic that was filling his heart and mind in place of his sight, Henry slowed his run to a jog--if he allowed himself to break into a full-blown run, he knew that he would never be able to calm down again until he saw light, and that was seeming less and less likely by the minute._

_But just when he was starting to lose hope, he saw a small glowing object, far ahead in the tunnel. He hadn't noticed it until now because he'd been too far away (and, for some reason, the darkness seemed to have cloaked it from afar, seeming to act as a solid mass), but now he could see it--one more light. It was not a flourescent tube but another standard light-bulb, dangling from the ceiling by way of a narrow chain. After he'd closed in another hundred feet or so, the _tic-tic-tic-tic _sound growing stronger behind him all the while, he could almost see the object being illuminated by the light. Then, before he knew it, he _could _see it--a door. Henry booked it for all he was worth, not letting the door out of his sight even when he heard the sound of scraping metal, intermingled with that of tearing gristle, coming from a short distance behind him._

_That thing was getting close. _Too _close._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Walter barely had enough time to notice the narrow, dim ray of dirty yellow light emanating from beneath the door before he heard (and felt) a hard _thump _against the other side of the door, startling a terrified cry out of him. He was going to be _so _hoarse when this was all said and done, he figured, and not from fear at all but merely surprise. _

_The doorknob jiggled vehemently for a second and stopped. Then, accompanied by pounding on the door: "Somebody, help! Walter! It's locked!"_

_Walter froze. "Henry? Is that you?"  
"Walter?" Henry sounded just as surprised. "Walter, listen--it's here! It's right there, I can see it...oh, man..."_

_Walter immediately thrust his hand into his pocket, searching for the doll-chain key. He found it, sure that _this _would be the right door on which to use it, and shoved it into the lock. Turned it._

_It wouldn't turn._

"Oh, shit," _Walter shouted. "Wrong key!"_

_"What?" Henry asked from the other side. "Walter, hurry! I can't--" A grunt of effort, followed by a gunshot._

_"I'm trying, okay? Just...stay alive!" And with that he dropped to his knees, returned the doll-chain key to its place once again, and began feeling along the bottom step of the staircase. His only chance was that the key he'd dropped was the one that could open this door. If that wasn't the case..._

Hurry the hell up,_ his mind urged. _There's not much time!

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Henry had only been pounding on the door for a second or two before he heard that _tic-tic-tic-tic _noise again, this time absurdly loud. Having nowhere else to go, he turned to face the source of the noise, gun pointed up ahead and gripped tightly with both hands. But no position was enough to steady him in the face of what he saw._

_The thing was some kind of worm, just as he had imagined--though nothing of this world, that was certain. Each of its countless segments--which seemed to be lying under a solid blanket of complete darkness farther back down the tunnel--consisted only of a smooth sphere, about six feet or so in diameter, with several hundred tiny appendages branching out in seemingly random directions. The light wasn't good enough to reveal the exact nature of these appendages, but it seemed that they had been the source of the _tic _noises all along. They were legs, which the thing apparently used to pull itself along the passage walls. The head was the only clearly visible part, though to say that it was _completely _clear would have been a mistake. The light from the single bulb reflected off of it with a sheen, as if it were made of metal. The head, too, consisted of a single smooth ball, but this piece was topped off by what appeared to be a very large child's birthday hat--an awkward cone shape protruded from the top of the sphere, about three feet in diameter at its base, marked only by a single awkwardly-etched red eye in the very center, as messy as if it had been drawn there by a child._

_"Metalhead," Henry remarked. The body was shaped differently than before, but that was the ugly cone-shaped mug of Metalhead, as sure as the night was black. "What do you want from me?"_

_The thing stopped no less than ten feet away from where Henry now stood. It seemed to shrink back in on itself for an inch or so, constricting like a cobra about to strike...and that was when Henry realized what it was doing. He raised the gun._

_"Oh, shit," he heard from behind him, through the door, along with some other inaudible mumbling._

_"What?" Henry said, not daring to take his eyes from the creature's staring red eye. "Walter, hurry! I can't--"_

_Then, the thing did something that made Henry very uncomfortable: It jerked its coiled head forward, shooting its entire body forward._

_Henry fired._

_It came for him._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Walter heard the commotion from the other side of the door, and while it served to speed him up physically, it actually hampered his progress--in his terrified excitement, he had begun to tremble. Henry's life was in his hands, and if the man died simply because Walter had dropped the key, then he would never be able to forgive himself--if only he hadn't dropped the damn _key!_ This would all be over now._

_Then, his hands finally came together around a small metal object, dangling halfway on and halfway off the sixth step from the bottom. He scooped it up into his hands, felt it over, realizing its warmth, and thanked God for this latest surge of impossible luck. He turned back towards the door, identifying its location by the narrow bar of light coming from beneath, and shot his hand out, feeling for the keyhole. He found it, and stuck the key inside._

_It wouldn't fit._

_"_No!_" he cried, trying to deny the harsh truth which had confronted him. It was the wrong key...no, wait, there it went. It slid into the lock, and Walter turned it hastily. The door opened._

_Walter sighed with relief...then gasped with terror as he beheld the thing, rushing down the hallway towards Henry at an impossible speed._

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Henry had barely heard the door creak open behind him when the thing stopped just a foot or two in front of him. The "head" sphere--the one containing the cone-shaped headpiece--also contained a narrow slit, running the majority of its height. Henry hadn't noticed the slit before because of the bad lighting. Now, the slit parted, revealing a disturbingly solid purple terrain within, disappearing into a black cavern over which some tentacled object--it appeared to be some kind of shredded uvula--dangled, spewing an undoubtedlty foul liquid all over the ruined purple ground which apparently served as the thing's throat._

_"Henry!" Walter said from behind, grabbing his shoulder. "Come on!"_

_Henry could only stare and take a single hesitational step backwards, horrified and fascinated by the thing before him. Before he could have a second thought, he felt several small things poking at his arms and legs. Looking around, he realized that the thing's numerous tiny, erect appendages--the _tics,_ he had come to think of them--were prodding at him, seizing him in their deathgrip, attempting to shovel him forth into the creature's apparently bottomless gullet. His gun fell from his hand, landed harmlessly on the ground._

_"_Henry!_" Walter shouted, and then there was the sound of gunfire. Two of the tentacles--there seemed to be six more--hanging from the uvula-thing separated from the mass and landed on the floor of the thing's mouth. "Come on!" The sound of sliding metal--Walter, snatching Henry's dropped firearm off of the ground, in all likelihood._

_Henry began to struggle, but the tiny tentacles were too strong. Ever so slowly, they actually seemed to be _lifting _him up off the ground. He could feel their razor-sharp tips penetrating his flesh, the searing pin-pricks of agony all over his body, the feeling that he would soon know how a frog in a blender would feel--_

_But Walter's interlocked, outstretched fists came down--once, twice, thrice--breaking the things off of the creature's body as effortlessly as if they had been toothpicks on a kindergartener's science project. Henry felt himself being pulled backward, away from the things by a slightly weaker pair of arms, and one by one, he felt the pinpricks begin to fade; he also noticed that his arms were bleeding from several areas, mostly on the biceps. The things had broken the skin, after all. He'd figured, but seeing did wonders for belief._

_Before he could grasp what was going on--it seemed as if he had been hypnotized by that thing, somehow--he was being dragged up a set of stairs, his feet stumbling beneath him as if controlled by someone else. Eventually they reached steady ground--well, it wasn't actually steady ground, it felt more like a piece of cheap plywood draped over a frame of some kind--and Henry dropped to his knees. He heard the sound of a slamming door, followed by a faint _click.

_"There," Walter said. "Locked. Bastard can't get us now."_

Tic-tic-tic. CLANG!_ The door shook in its frame, seeming to challenge this declaration._

_"But," Walter added, helping Henry to his knees, "we'd do good to play it safe. Let's get the hell out of here." He slid Henry's arm over his own shoulder and proceeded into the pitch-black room. He found it amazing that Walter had gotten this far without any visibility at all._

_"Where?" Henry asked, closing his eyes. He was beginning to feel tired again, but this time it wasn't a sleepy-tiredness. This time, it was a hurting, cramped kind of tired. "I don't feel so hot. I can't see a thing."_

_"That's not good," Walter said. "But about the seeing thing, that's normal here. Don't worry, I'll think of some--well, I'll be damned!"_

_"What?" Henry opened his eyes...and saw a faint white light, emanating from some kind of drop up ahead, accompanied by a barely-audible, indiscernable noise. "What is it?"_

_"It's light," Walter said. "From down there. But I swear it wasn't there a second ago, 'cause I would've seen it..."_

_"What does it mean?"_

_"I don't know." _

_Finally they were standing at the edge of the drop. Looking down, Walter saw a bright white circle, almost too bright to look at directly. From it issued a steady, faint static noise, like that of a TV tuned to a dead station._

_"Okay," Walter said, easing Henry to his feet and finally letting go of him, "maybe I do know. I mean, not entirely, but..."_

_CLANG_! _From behind._

_"Okay, let's go," Walter said, pushing against the small of Henry's back. "Down we go--"_

_"What?" Henry said, pulling away. "What are you saying?"_

_"I'm saying, down we go," he said, pointing to the static field below. "It's probably a way out."_

_"Or just a hole," Henry said. He could barely see Walter roll his eyes in the dim light afforded by the static field._

_"Look," Walter said, pushing Henry again but more gently, "it's the hole, or the door." He pointed back the way they'd come. "Your choice."_

_Henry looked back at the door...saw it bending in its frame...heard it creaking...heard the _tic-tic-tic-tic _of the thing on the other side, almost completely broken through...then he turned to Walter. "You're sure it's the way out?"  
"Not at all," Walter said. "Coming?"_

_Before Henry had a chance to respond, Walter faked a push, then grabbed Henry around the shoulders and pulled him down, dragging the both of them off of the platform and into a free-fall. Seconds later, screaming with a mixture of terror and glee--the glee that can only be experienced by one who is a completely unasissted state of free-fall, not like one might experience on an amusement park ride but rather like one who dives out of a moving airplane without a parachute, with the surety that one is going to die but also with the hope that one might somehow survive with damage minimal enough to warrant a functional life from this point forward--they passed through the vortex._

_Once again...white._

_More white._

_Even more white._

_So much white._

So _much white._

My head hurts...

Mine too...

I think I'm gonna hurl...

_From far up above, _CLANG! _Followed by the sound of the door, flying off of its hinges and clattering onto the plywood floor._

_And then..._FLASH!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

_He was standing in the Dark Room, waiting, watching...and then, suddenly and without warning, those two--the rebel and the quiet one--came into his view. He could see them as clearly as if they had been standing before him. He had been worried, for they had disappeared for a short time and he had been unable to find them, far as his eyes could travel. But now they were within his view once again, and he felt a surge of calm, of relaxation. He would not have to worry about them after all, it seemed._

_Driving the bolt on his rifle, he rose to his feet...and smiled._

END OF CHAPTER 20


	21. Again

**Chapter 21**

**Again**

_"So darling, if you're not here haunting me,_

_I'm wondering who's house are you haunting tonight?"_

"Oh Lately It's So Quiet," _OK Go_

_(Oh No)_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The feeling of slipping away, not into unconsciousness or back but into some kind of split state between the two, was very uncomfortable...but not nearly as much so as the feeling of returning to the land of the living, which came mere moments later. Walter awoke in the middle of the night, feeling the palms of his hands and the seat of his pants (for he was in a sitting position) pressing against some cold, hard surface. He wasn't exactly sure where he was, even when he saw the moon shining bright up above, just that he was back in Silent Hill...in a sense. He knew this wasn't the real Silent Hill. He wondered if there even _was _such a thing as the "real" Silent Hill. He wondered if the town he'd known about and visited off-and-on all these years was really just an illusion in itself, the inhabitants no more than projections of the damned--either the damned, or those unlucky enough to venture upon the place by accident.

These grim but somehow cliched thoughts were blown from his mind, however, once he remembered Henry. He rose to his feet, feeling his heart speed up. "Henry!" He cried out, cupping his hands over his mouth. He opened his mouth to shout again when a tired groan came from just a few feet to the left.

"Dammit," Henry said, sitting up. He'd awakened more slowly than Walter had. "Stop shouting," he mumbled, raising a hand to his forehead as if in pain. "My head is killing me. What just happened?"

"I don't entirely know," Walter said. "Last thing I remember is..." and then he remembered. "Yeah, I don't remember," he lied.

"I remember...I remember a dark place, and a monster or something," Henry said. "Oh, well. We're here now, so I suppose we'd better go ahead with our business. I don't like this place."

"You mean _your _business," Walter said. "I don't even know what the hell I'm supposed to do here." He looked around him at the night, which seemed to loom up around him on all sides like the wings of a wicked venus fly trap.

Pretty accurate metaphor, when he thought about it. They were probably really lucky to even still be alive, but for some reason he just didn't feel relieved. He didn't feel that grateful, renewed sense of vitality that a close call normally brought him. It could be because he knew there were likely more similar events to come; it could be because he was worried about the unnamed task which waited up ahead on the path for him; or it could simply be because he didn't care, and had given up. Or perhaps it was a combination of the three.

"Did you have other plans?" Henry asked, still sounding like he was stoned. It crossed Walter's mind that Henry had sounded like that since they had met, back in the prison cell, and that he hadn't really noticed. Weird. He wondered if Henry was the type to dabble in the drug underworld from time to time. Walter himself wasn't--he was too afraid of getting killed or addicted, or something else--but even though Henry seemed more prudish than himself, Walter knew that such people were usually capable of concealing their negative habits very well.

"No," Walter said. "Just musing."

"You mean complaining."

"Whatever."

"Well," Henry began, "my original plan was just to see that gravesite, both to satisfy my curiosity and to put this Other Walter mystery to rest. But I wasn't really expecting to find what we did--or, rather, what we didn't. I hadn't really sat down and thought about what I would do if I didn't find what I was hoping to find."

"So, what?" Walter shrugged. "Just give up? Turn back?"

"No," Henry said, his jaw protruding. "Not quite. Not yet. I've got this gut feeling...call it instinct...that empty grave means there's something more to this. As long as there's a plothole in this story, I won't ever be able to sleep right again. That hole means that there's something I haven't tackled yet. I don't want to leave any stone unturned, for fear of whatever this unknown thing is coming back to bite me."

"Or _haunt _you," Walter said for no apparent reason.

Henry turned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," Walter said, backing up a step. "I was just using a metaphor, jeez..."

Eyeing him, Henry turned back down the street. "I can't tell where we are. Can you see any roadsigns?"

"Yeah," Walter said, pointing at a corner to the right. "It says we're right at the intersection of Neely and Katz...but that can't be right. We were way down by Lindsey a minute ago."

"We were?" Henry said. "But I thought we were underground? You mean when that thing was chasing me?"

"No," he said. "Before that. Sorry, I forgot you weren't with me. I was..." he trailed off, hesitating before he shook his head. "No. You know what? Nevermind. Let's just figure out where to go and then go there. Don't think about this crap, or you'll go crazy."

Henry regarded him with raised eyebrows.

"I don't do this often," Walter told him, waving him away with one hand. "So sue me."

"This is only my second time," Henry said.

"Well, that's one more time than me."

"Hey, who's that?"

Walter turned to face the direction Henry was pointing--west-southwest down Katz Street--reaching for the gun he expected to find in his holster...only to find that it was no longer there. "What the hell?"

"Hey!" Henry said, and broke into a run down the street. "Hey, wait!"

"What's the deal?" Walter said, following Henry while trying to search his waistband and the ground around him for the gun. He must have dropped it during the fall. Great. It was probably lying at the bottom of a dark pit in that crazy place.

"I see somebody!" Henry hollered back to him, and when Walter looked up, he realized that he could see someone, too. A short person, probably a girl. He couldn't tell anything else about her, except that she seemed to be wearing some kind of short dress, perhaps a skirt.

"Hey," Walter said, just a minute or so behind Henry. "Who is it?"

"I don't know," Henry said, but he was already far away enough so that Walter could barely hear him. "Hurry up!"

"I'm going as fast as I can!"

They passed a couple of run-down low-income housing projects surrounding a well-maintained central building before a small apartment complex, surrounded by a rustic fence, came into view up ahead. The purported girl stopped at the gate--although 'stopped' was probably not the best word choice, for she moved so quickly that it seemed as if she had simply gone _through _it--and entered it. Walter couldn't tell from here if she had looked back over her shoulder or not--he found himself hoping that she had; for some reason, the idea put him at ease.

Up ahead, Henry took through the gate almost as quickly as the girl had, and before Walter had a chance to protest, the two of them disappeared through the front doors of the apartment complex. Again, the girl hadn't even seemed to open the door at all; she'd seemed to go right through it, real quick-like. Walter rubbed his eyes--quickly, for fear of running head-first into something whilst his eyes were closed--and had to marvel at the kid's agility. He thought for a moment about yelling some protest to Henry, but decided that it would be better if Henry stayed up ahead, in the event that he were actually able to catch up to the kid.

"Damn it," Walter sighed, slowing to a stop and propping himself up on the rusty metal of the gate through which they had run. "I need to get out more." After taking a deep breath, he looked at the apartment complex. His neck slowly arched backward as he looked up at the building's roof.

All of a sudden, it seemed a lot bigger than it had seemed from down the road.

"Wood Side Apartments," he mumbled. "I think this is the place where Ricky used to live." Ricky, of course, being a friend of his from when he'd still lived in Wish House. Something about that memory bothered him--it didn't feel quite right--but he dismissed it for now, his concern more focused on Henry's safety. If it had crossed his mind that the significance behind this feeling, this uncertainty, might have something to do with making sure Henry was safe, then he might have put more thought into it at that moment.

Instead, sighing, he pushed himself off of the gate and went inside.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lobby was very small, and just short of dilapidated. The carpeted floor was torn in several places, revealing the broken tiles beneath. The wallpaper was gouged just as much, as if during a struggle which had involved a sharp object, perhaps a knife. Walter took a step forward into the pitch blackness, and once again found himself wishing he had a flashlight. He felt something warm and smooth brush against the top of his head, and jumped. Reaching his hand up into the darkness to swat away the offensive object, his hand clasped around it--a glass object, almost oval-shaped. He tugged on the object, finding that it was suspended from the ceiling--quite strongly, at that, for it would not give no matter how much force he applied to it. He returned to the front door, feeling along the wall, and at last found the light switch and flipped it. The light bulb immediately sparked to bright life, only to die back down to a dim state of near-death. It was cracked in a couple of places, and looked like it was about to give up altogether.

Walter was just thankful for the light. A staircase protruded from the wall opposite the front entrance, following it up to the second floor and branching off in two directions--one continuing up to the third floor and one stopping at the second. Walter took the first branch and found himself on a walk leading to a door which would, presumably, lead into the second floor hallway. The door did as promised, and soon Walter found himself in a hallway which branched to the left and the right.

"Henry?" He started down the hall to the right, unable to see a thing. He kept his hand on the wall to the right, afraid of exactly how easy it would be to get lost in here. "Henry? You in here?"

Then, he felt something odd...in the floor. Not _on _the floor, but _in _the floor. It was as if the floor was shaking, but very, very faintly. Almost like someone in the building was playing a particularly loud song on a radio with a good bass system, or perhaps just playing a bass guitar very, very loud. But the catch was, he couldn't hear the _sound _of the radio or the guitar or whatever it was; he could only feel the vibrations.

The reason for this audio phenomenon became apparent soon enough, once the noise which was causing it began to fill the hall. He imagined, for a second, that he could hear it coming in from the outside, through the lobby doors and up the staircase, through the door and down the hall, engulfing him, faint as it was, like a ghostly wind, perhaps a derivative of the fog which blanketed the rest of the town even in the black of night. The sound of air-raid sirens filled the night, growing steadily louder. They sounded like they might be mounted on a moving vehicle, for they seemed to fade in and then fade out for a moment, only to fade in a second later with increased clarity and volume.

They were just air raid sirens, Walter knew, probably left over from a time long past and still capable of going renegade from time to time...but for some reason, they really got to him. They instilled him with an almost phobic panic--it was a 'door closing behind him' kind of feeling, like the last call at a bar or the announcement the big department stores made--"Closing in five minutes." It seemed to be the international-language phrasing for _Last chance._ He was possessed with the desire to turn and run, find the quickest way out of town, not out of fear but out of sheer instinct, as if the sirens spoke not to his mind but to his heart...but he was able to cling to the image of Henry and that little kid, alone in this crazy town, and pull himself out of this impatient haze. He closed his eyes--a mistake, he knew, but he was unable to do much else--and took a deep breath. In, out. He did it again. And again, and again. If those sirens continued, he didn't think he'd be able to keep going. It was as if those things were sending him waves of pure phobic energy.

Finally, though, they began to fade, and eventually they were gone altogether. Walter took another deep breath...and another...and soon he felt his heart begin to slow down. Now that they were gone, he found it odd that he had ever been intimidated by them...it was like waking from a nightmare in which bananas were the incarnate form of fear-inspiring evil. It even left him with a similar odd feeling.

With his hands to the wall, Walter continued, passing a door on his right marked _203. _Interesting, he thought, that the first room he should come to would be the reverse of _302, _Henry's room number back at South Ashfield Heights He tried the lock--not out of rational thought but out of absent-minded curiosity--and found it locked. It was only at this point that he noticed he was able to see, somewhat. There was some kind of light coming from behind him, distant but powerful. It barely reached this far, but it was there--the hall branched off away from room 203, perpendicular with this hall, and at the far end of it was a light of some kind, suspended about halfway between the floor and the ceiling. Walter rushed towards it, echoing a comic phrase in his mind as his pace quickened--_Go to the light!_

He passed another two rooms, 207 and 208 (208...he thought that was the room in which his friend had once lived), before he realized that the hallway up ahead was obstructed by some object or objects, and it was not until he was almost on top of the light that he realized what those objects were. He felt a chill run down his spine, though there wasn't necessarily a reason for it. It wasn't a _scary _sight; just unfathomably weird.

A dummy doll, seemingly of the storefront variety, had been strangled and bound with several (hundred?) feet of rusty barbed wire. The wire was driven into the walls on either side of the dummy, through a complicated series of holes that seemed to have been drilled there for this particular purpose, forming a makeshift fence that would be possible yet _incredibly_ painful to bypass without some form of superior protection. The dummy's left arm had been severed and hung in the barbed mess just a few inches from the body, while the right arm seemed to be reaching out to Walter, flashlight in hand. Walter reached out and put his hand on the light, and for a moment his eyes fell on the blank face of the mannequin. He realized why his blood had run cold at the sight; the mannequin had no face, and yet it seemed to be expressing pain somehow. He looked at the face, and he seemed to see something that wasn't there; not a face, but an _emotion._ He knew that such a thing was impossible; mannequins and inanimate objects could not even _have _feelings, much less express them. All the same, though...it was as if he had just discovered the body of not a mannequin, but a fellow man, caught by some unspeakable fate, using the last of his strength to reach out to Walter and provide him some assistance with the flashlight. It was very unsettling, just to have this thing looking at him like that...and before he really thought about it, pulled on the flashlight and started to turn away...

...only to find that the flashlight would not give. It was stuck fast in the dummy's hand. Frustrated, Walter leaned in for a closer look. He had to step to one side, to prevent the flashlight from silhouetting the dummy's hand. Reaching forward, he tried to pry the fingers from around the flashlight. They wouldn't give an inch.

"Damn it!" Walter said, stamping his foot on the ground. He wanted that light; he wasn't even sure he would be able to find Henry again if he didn't have a light. He didn't know what the hell had possessed Henry to come running into a building like this one, pitch black as it was. He was going to ring Henry's neck if and when they were reunited.

Just as he was turning away from the mannequin, intending to examine it from the other side as well, he noticed something on its forearm, just below the hand which gripped the flashlight. It seemed to be a note, scribbled with something extremely small. From this angle, Walter couldn't even read it; he had to put his face almost up against it, squinting his eyes and trying to focus them, before his eyes could process the language. It read: _The light of wisdom only comes to one who is worthy._

"Light of wisdom?" Walter spat, backing away from the odd structure and into the light once more. "What the hell is _this _crap? Some kind of fancy poetry?" Then, of course, he recalled Henry's story about the Other Walter, paired with his own knowledge of the Ritual of the 21 Sacraments. Could it be a coincidence that the Receiver of _Wisdom _was the 21st Sacrament, Henry? He knew it _could _be, but he doubted it was.

Then, from the other side of the artificial dummy 'barricade': "Hey...hey, wait! _No!"_

_THUD._

"Henry?" Walter shouted, almost grabbing the barbed wire with his bare hands but allowing his reflexes to spare him a nasty wound. "Henry, is that you?"

A low, warbling noise, the nature of which was completely indiscernable.

"Henry?"

Nothing.

Walter turned to the mannequin and its hand...sighed...clenched his fists together and raised them...brought them down on the mannequin's outstretched hand...and cried out in pain, stumbling and falling onto the floor. The mannequin's arm did not break; did not even budge. It had been like hitting solid stone. Whomever had put this thing here did _not _want anyone but Henry to have it. Which seemed odd, considering that it was only a flashlight. Regardless, he rose to his feet, cradling his right wrist--the one that had actually come in direct contact with the mannequin's ridiculously hard arm--and glanced around, wondering how he could get to the other side of the barricade quickly. He wondered if any of the rooms were connected, as he knew they were in some hotels. He doubted it. However...

"Yeah," he confirmed out loud, turning to the door of the nearest room--208, it _was _208--and trying the knob. It turned, and the door opened inward. He banged his face against the wall just inside--it was just a narrow front area, probably for hanging coats and ditching shoes, but the room expanded to the left--and shut the door behind him, moving left and into the larger portion of the room.

Directly inside the living area was a large round dinnertable, just barely allowing access from the other side into a small kitchen area. To the right, the room opened up a little, furnished by only a television set by the right-hand wall (complete with ancient 'rabbit ear' receptors), a reclining chair, and, behind the chair, a shelf which rose almost to the ceiling. On the wall to the left of the shelf, a narrow door offered passage into the bedroom area. Walter made for this door, which turned out to be a hub that turned in three directions: To the left, a bedroom; straight ahead, a bathroom; to the right, another bedroom.

Walter took the right doorway; it, unlike the other rooms, was completely devoid of furniture. Devoid, that was, except for a single grandfather clock, pressed up against the very center of the left-hand wall. He approached the clock and examined it closely, feeling his heart rising with anticipation.

"I wonder..." He leaned to the right, examining the spot at which the clock met the wall. He noticed several cracks in the paint on the wall; stepping around to that side of the clock, he pressed his shoulder up against the elderly structure and pushed. Sure enough, the clock gave way, exposing a crack in the wall about five feet tall.

"Booya!" Walter exclaimed under his breath. "It's still here!" He hunched down enough to fit into the crack and pulled himself through, entering the next room over--209. He found himself in a living area, this one completely empty, too, save for a pile of debris in one corner--from where the debris had come, Walter did not know, for nothing in the room appeared to be damaged, but that was not his concern at the moment. He ran for the front door and burst out into the hallway, coming out just on the other side of the obstructive mannequin.

"Henry?" he called out once again, still with no response. The hall to the right had not been afforded the luxury of lumination, as had the one to the left, and as a result Walter could only see two walls, a floor, and a ceiling, all decending into a black void. Putting his hand on the wall for guidance once again, he followed what he believed to be the source of the cry he'd heard.

Before long, he walked right into something cold and metallic. Feeling ahead of him, he deduced that it was a door. He felt for the knob but found a handle instead, and tried to pull the door open. It wouldn't budge.

"Henry?" he said, gently rapping on the door. "You in there? Are you okay?"

No response. He felt around on the door and found a deadbolt, running its length. He took it off and opened the door, and found himself in a narrow room with a staircase that went both up and down.

Placing one hand on the stoop where the stairs joined this floor, he looked up into the darkness and saw nothing. He thought about looking down, but decided that he didn't care what was down there. He also thought about calling to Henry, but he had already decided that they were pretty much separated for the moment--he was pretty sure that his goal in this place had become, once again, to find Henry. This time, there would be the company of that kid to worry about, as well.

He started up the stairs.

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The third floor hallway had not been deadbolted from the inside, as the one below had, so Walter was able to enter without obstruction. The first thing that caught his eye was a small flourescent light fixture, dangling from the ceiling up ahead, maybe sixty feet. The light seemed very important, shining out against the oppressive darkness of this place as it was; it seemed to be both warning him and calling to him at the same time, as if to say, _What you need is here, but before you take it, you should ask yourself if you really do need it. _But Walter was not to be intimidated by some luminary fixture; he broke into a jog towards the light.

Indeed, it _was _highlighting something--a door, marked _3079._ On closer examination, Walter realized that the number '9' had been added with white paint, and that the room was really _307._ He wondered why someone would paint an additional number on an apartment door. Even if it had only served to confuse someone, it would only work for a second or two; quick examination of the adjacent apartments would lead one to logically deduce that the room between _306 and 308 _was none other than _307._

Shrugging, he reached for the doorknob...and quickly pulled his hand back, as if he'd realized at the last second that it was not a doorknob but a massive, malignant cockroach.

There was blood on the doorknob. _Wet _blood. _Fresh _blood.

"Henry?" he mumbled, wondering (once again) if he had screwed up royally by bringing Henry to this town. "Are you in there?"

Receiving no response, he covered his hand with the sleeve of his jacket and used it to turn the knob...and he pushed the door inward on its hinges.

The room was empty, and looked to have exactly the same (or a very similar) layout as 203. Empty, that was, except for one barely perceivable object in the far corner, near the entrance to the bedrooms. It was a small person, probably a kid (probably _the _kid, the one Henry had been chasing), standing over a small pile of something.

"Hey," Walter said, kneeling down. "Are you okay?" He squinted in the darkness, making sure to prop the door open with his right ankle so that he could use the light from the hallway to see into the room. He could see the windows on the far side of the room, but for some reason the moon wasn't sending any light in here. Now that his eyes were adjusting, he could see that it was not a _pile _that the kid was standing over, but another _person. _Either dead, or unconsious. "Who's that?"

The kid only stared at him, unmoving. Before long, Walter noticed something very odd: The kid's eyes seemed to be reflecting the light from the hallway quite clearly. Sort of like a cat's eyes, he pondered. Dismissing it as a trick of the lighting, he stuck his hands out in front of him.

"Listen," he said. "That guy that was chasing you...that was my friend, Henry. He's not going to hurt you, and neither am I. We don't want any trouble."

The girl pointed at the body lying next to her, drawing Walter's attention. It was only now that he realized--the body looked a little bit like Henry's from this angle. No, a _lot _like Henry's. _Too _much like Henry's. "That's not--"

He was cut off halfway into his sentence when he was struck with an unnerving sensation: Something crawling across his ankle, the one he'd left in the doorway. Without a second thought, he pivoted and shot his hands out towards his leg, intending to seize the intruder (he imagined something like a large snake, from the way it had felt)...but when he turned, his hands only touched the cloth of his jeans. No snake, no thing.

"Whatever," he said, turning back to the kid...but the kid was no longer there. Walter glanced around the room for a moment before his eyes came to rest on a large sliver of wood that had apparently fallen in from the decayed ceiling, lying in the floor right in front of him. He picked it up and used it to prop the door open. Just as he slid the wood into the crack beneath the open door, tightening it into place, his right ear suddenly plugged up. Surprised, he furrowed his brow and stuck his finger into his ear. "Weird," he said, feeling a sudden, powerful itch far down inside his ear. It wasn't enough to hurt, just to really irritate him. In any case, he managed to ignore this strange new ailment for a moment while he looked around the room. It wasn't very large; the kid couldn't have gone far without Walter seeing or hearing her. He craned his neck to look into the kitchen...nothing.

"Hey," he called into the room. "Hey, kid, I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? I'm your friend. I just want to make sure Henry's okay, and then we'll leave. You can even come with us, if you want." He crossed over to the bedroom area, intending to check there...only to brush up against rough metal. "What the...?"

A metal lattice had been placed across the doorway that would have lead into the bedroom area. He felt along it, searching high and low for some sign of a break. There was none, and it seemed too strong to try to tear through--his wrists were still sore from trying to break the mannequin's hand off--so he glanced back over his shoulder, towards the door--still no kid--and went to the window to look out into the night, confused.

"Huh," he said, pressing his hand against the paned glass. The light from the hall was enough to illuminate an odd shape, just a few feet outside the building, but not much else. The structure he was now seeing looked something like the bishop piece on a chess board--fat on the bottom, narrowing out in the center, and then growing slightly fatter near the top, where it connected to the spearhead tip in a little metal ring. The structure was mostly a reddish-brown color, as if from many years of rust and decay. It filled him with a sense of foreboding, as if he were only seeing the smallest corner of a very large picture. He didn't know why it should do that to him, but it did. He felt his heart begin to speed up. It almost steadied out again after a few seconds had passed, but then it began to race again when he heard a soft _click, _followed by a sudden absence of light in the room.

That had been the sound of the door sliding closed, he was sure. But how? He'd stuck that piece of wood under the door, so he should've heard--

Then, a swishing noise. Soft, but no less obnoxious as a result. It was coming closer; moving slowly, but definitely coming closer.

"Who's there?" Walter asked, knowing that he did not honestly expect an answer. He put his back against the wall and started to inch over towards the side of the room, near the door to the bedrooms, like a child trying to sneak around a feared animal, perhaps a large dog. It crossed his mind that he could not tell exactly from which direction the sound was coming; with one ear clogged up, he was unable to follow the direction of the sound. He only knew that it was there. Could that have been intended? It seemed crazy, that someone could 'magically' cause his ear to malfunction in that way, but really...that other place, that other Walter, wasn't all of that crazy, too? Wasn't the reason he was here in the first place completely crazy?

He felt something thick and wet brush up against his leg, and when he looked down at it, he saw those eyes again--the kid's eyes, the ones that reflected light. Even though there was no light in here to reflect off of them, they had a faint copper glow, much like one of those glow-in-the-dark toys that the cereal companies had always put in the boxes back when Walter had been a kid--the kind that you held up to the light for a few minutes, and then you turned off the light and watched them glow for a few moments before they crapped out. Cheap shit kiddie toys.

But the toy was not his primary concern; he kicked his foot violently, throwing whatever it was off of him and into the blackness, but before he'd gone two steps he tripped over the person who had been lying in the floor. He fell forward, landing on his face and causing immense trauma to his nose. He thought he might have broken it--it hurt like hell--but right now he was too excited to care. What had caught his attention was the _slurp _noise which had been produced by his collision with the body--that was _not _a normal sound. He turned and ever-so-slowly reached out towards the body, afraid to touch it but having to know, his worries temporarily forgotten in favor of this new oddity.

His hand touched some cold, dry substance that gave immediately beneath his touch, like pudding. It was a very unpleasant sensation, and he withdrew his hand immediately, rising to his feet. Already, he could hear a wet, slippery sound, coming across the floor. He knew it was coming for him, even if he couldn't judge from which direction. He turned and ran for what he thought was the door, and finally crashed up against it. He groped for the knob, found it, and turned it.

Well, _tried _to turn it. It was locked.

"What the _fuck?_" he hissed, kicking the jamb. He threw his weight against the door, unable to make it budge an inch. It was as if the door was made of stone. "Come on!"

That wet sound was getting louder, seeming to fill the entire room. Walter couldn't help but notice, with impending dread, that the floor was beginning to feel unnaturally soft--and_ porous?_--beneath his feet, like some kind of bread. It was difficult to visualize in his mind...the closest accurate description would be that it was like walking on a sturdy trampoline made of bread white. He did the only other thing he could think of to do; he opened the sliding door to the blinded closet, which stood just around the corner from the door, stepped inside, and quietly closed the door. He didn't think it would do much good, but he didn't know what else to do. He was, quite literally, backed into a corner...and who knew? Maybe putting a door in between himself and this thing would keep him safe, if only for a little while.

The wet sound grew louder, and louder, until it seemed that it was going to burst Walter's eardrums. Then it was joined by another sound--a buzzing sound, loud and intrusive, as if from a chainsaw, but organic, more like a giant insect.

_A giant insect _with _a chainsaw, _Walter mused. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, trying not to tense--he'd heard somewhere that if you tensed right before you were cut, bruised, burned stabbed (or whatever it was that might be about to happen to him), then it would hurt more because your body would be offering resistance. He listened as that awful chainsaw-insectoid buzzing grew louder, warbled in and out of perception...and from beyond his eyelids, he sensed a very brief but nonetheless stunning flash of light. Curiosity outweighed fear, and he opened his eyes to look through the blinds on the closet door.

What he saw was both terrible and amazing. The walls, floor and ceiling were all _glowing, _a visceral orange and red color, swimming with hundreds of thousands of virile shapes. Unspeakable silhouettes of things seemed to be teeming from just below the surface, long and wide one moment and short and narrow the next. The body, the one that the girl had been standing over, was still lying there, but then something happened that made Walter sick with fear: one of the black shapes in the floor approached the body, and the next thing he knew the body was coated in a thick, black mess. The thing made a suckling sound, barely audible above that terrible buzzing, and--_Jesus,_ Walter thought--the thing pulled the body _into the floor._ It wasn't like there was a hole in the floor; it was more like the black thing on the ground had just pulled the body into the floor, made it a _part _of the floor. Walter looked down at the floor of the closet and realized, with both thanks and utter confusion, that it was probably the only surface in the room that was still physically stable. The walls, floor and ceiling of the closet remained free of this hellish influence, by some miracle of a God which may or may not have existed.

Meanwhile, Walter noticed, the body had become a large, black smudge on--_in--_the floor. Soon, it began to waver, its very shape growing unstable, and then it burst into a million more of those tiny black things, all of which scattered to the far corners of the room.

_Are all of those...people?!_ Walter wondered with horrified amazement. _Is this what happens to people in this town? Is this where they all go?_ Somehow, he doubted that this was where they _all _went...but he knew that he had definitely caught on to the edge of something much, much bigger than he had expected. If he had still had any hope of surviving this insanity, it was gone now.

He closed his eyes, covered himself with his arms--for he was unable to shake the feeling that he was crawling with countless bugs, even though he knew he wasn't--and waited.

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After about twenty minutes the buzzing began to wane, toggling in and out of perception--one minute it was loud and unholy, and the next it seemed to be fading into the background--and another ten minutes saw the noise starting to fade altogether. Walter did not open his eyes until, several minutes after the noise had ceased completely, he heard the door click and slide open, creaking.

Relieved as he was, he couldn't move. He was paralyzed with the certainty of his impending death. He stood there, waiting for something to consume him, unable to snap out of his trance until he saw a potent flashlight beam, bouncing around the room, and heard a familiar voice: "Hello? Walter?"

"Shit," Walter whispered, unable to think of anything else to say. It seemed to be the only word left in his vocabulary.

"Walter?" Henry said, and the beam focused on the closet. "Are you in there?"

Walter nodded, breathless, as if he'd expected Henry to hear him.

"Come out of there," Henry said, pulling the door open and reaching out to Walter.. "What happened? Why are you in the closet?"

Walter shook his head. "You don't want to know." He took Henry's hand and left the closet, and they left the room together.

After looking at Walter's face, pale in the flashlight's beam, for a moment, Henry said, "No, I have the feeling I don't. In any case, we've got to get out of here."

"I'm way ahead of you," Walter said, starting for the door.

"I thought things were bad when I lost the kid," Henry started, following Walter, "but things didn't get really crazy until I found her. She's not normal, Walter."

"What do you mean?" he said. "_I _found her!"

"What?" Henry paused, grabbing Walter's shoulder.

"I found her," he said, pointing back to room 307. "She was in there. She disappeared when...well, when things went off the deep end."

"But I found her," Henry said. "Up on the roof. Well, not here, not exactly. I found her in the other building."

"Other building?"

"Yeah," Henry said. "This building's right next to another apartment complex. The geniuses who built it knocked out the fire escape on the second floor, so I almost fell to my death when I opened it." He sighed. "Anyway, there's a hole in the other building, and I was able to get in. There's all kinds of crazy stuff in there."

"Crazy, like what?" Walter said.

He turned to Walter. "You don't wanna know," he jeered.

"You're probably right," Walter said. "But I want to know about the kid."

"Right," Henry said. They had reached the south end of the hallway, where it branched off to the east and the west. Henry led Walter down the west branch and through the door to the lobby staircase. "I got to the roof and she was standing there, looking at me...just looking at me. I got down and called to her, trying to get her to come to me. She dropped her head, like this." He lowered his head suddenly, so that his chin rested on his chest. "And then she got on her knees, and her hair went down over her face...and the back of her head was..." he paused, shaking his head. "It was messed up."

"What do you mean, 'messed up?'" Walter halted.

"I mean, it wasn't human," Henry said, meeting Walter's glare. "Her 'face,' the human one, I don't think that was her real face. I think what I saw, on the back of her head, that was actually the front. That was her real face. It was like...it was just a big slit, running up and down the 'back' of her head, and there was...this is going to sound crazy, but there was an _eyeball _sticking out of it. It looked at me."

Walter shivered. He thought of the girl he'd seen back in 307...of the slimy thing that had chased him into the closet. Could that have been the same creature Henry had seen?

"I don't know what there was for us here, _if _there ever was anything," Henry said, "but I think we should get out of this building, right now. Get back on the streets. It's safer there."

"I doubt that," Walter said. "It's not safer anywhere in this town." He was thinking about the sirens, the ones he'd heard up on the second floor. He couldn't help but notice that all the weird shit had started happening after he'd heard them. He also couldn't help but think that maybe some other things had decided to join the party.

"Where do you think we should go, then?" Henry asked. They had reached the bottom of the staircase now, and were standing in front of the lobby.

"I don't think it matters," Walter said. "Listen...about that kid."

"Yeah?"

"How long ago was this that you saw her?"

"Not long," Henry said. "Just about ten or fifteen minutes ago."

"Hmm," Walter said, resting his chin on his elbow. "I suppose it's possible that she trapped me in there with that thing...or maybe she _was _that thing...anyway, I suppose it's possible that she trapped me in there and then came after you."

"Why's that?"

"Well, I saw her in there, but if my math is right--and if I can still tell time as well as I could yesterday--then we encountered her at about the same time."

Henry didn't say anything. Walter didn't need a flashlight to know what his face would look like.

"There's that," Walter continued. "And then, there's the worse possibility."

"And what's that?" Henry said, though he thought he might know.

"The worse possibility?" Walter said. "That there's _two _of them. Hell, maybe more."

Outside, the moon tried in vain to reach the town with its message of hope and good tidings; the fog, unforgiving as ever, would allow nothing to enter or leave--not even the inviting glow of the night sky. Hanging over the town like an omen of death, there was only blackness.

END OF CHAPTER 21


	22. Winds of Change

**Chapter 22**

**Winds of Change**

_"Molars and fangs, the clicking of bones_

_Spirits moaning among the tombstones_

_And the night when the cold wind blows,_

_No one cares, nobody knows..."_

"Pet Sematary," _The Ramones_

_(Mondo Bizarro)_

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The moon stared down over a part of town where three people sat in the confines of a little brown sedan, two of them unconscious and the third smoking a cigarette and pondering some unimportant series of thoughts.

Douglas had parked under the driveway arch of Jack's Inn, facing the road. He currently sat with one arm draped over the steering wheel and his head hanging out the open window, breathing in the night air. It wasn't exactly fresh--for some reason, he had the sensation that the town was not a wide-open space but a confine, a closed-off area, perhaps some kind of containment. As if, just beyond the clouds, some oppressive might be observed standing between himself and the heavens.

Sighing, he took a puff from the cigarette clasped between the thumb and index fingers of his left hand, which lay hanging out the window so as not to intrude on the fresh air of his passengers. Not that it mattered; Heather was in a state of unconsciousness from which Douglas wasn't rightly sure she would ever return, and even Herring the Mighty Watchman had dozed off. Not that Douglas blamed him; considering all that the three of them had been through just in these past few hours, things had turned out unfathomably sunny. They were lucky to still be alive; Douglas was sure that he owed his life to Heather on at least one count, maybe more.

Again, his eyes fell on the red book, sitting on the dashboard. That damned book. Heather had basically given up her eyes for that book, perhaps more. What was so damned important about it? If she ever woke up, he thought he might ask her about it.

_If she ever wakes up,_ he thought to himself, feeling the gravity of what that thought seemed to imply. _A couple of hours ago, the idea that she might be dead in a little while would have driven me off the deep end._ He tried to smile, and found that he couldn't. What was with this sudden mood change? Even after Herring's run-in with that psychotic barbarian, James, the three of them had been in an easygoing state of mind. This unbearable tension, which hung over the car like a black curtain, had not existed. Nothing had really changed, physically. But that wasn't relevant anyway, because this feeling wasn't tied to anything that had happened, not _physically._ It was more like that old saying he'd heard somewhere, probably in some piece of poetry long dubbed useless and forgotten--"The winds of change have begun to blow." That was what he felt; it was as if a cold wind had begun to blow, carrying with it a suitcase full of strange events. He wasn't normally tuned to that kind of frequency--his senses were normally adjusted to his immediate surroundings, able to quickly calculate and evaluate the current situation to try and find the best way to proceed; this feeling, this foreboding, was very different from anything he'd ever experienced before. It was as if his mind were attempting to perform his normal evaluatory methods on a situation to come.

He took a glance over at Herring, who was snoring quietly in the passenger seat. He watched the wind come in through the window and ruffle the officer's short but impossibly fine black hair. Saw the dried blood, caked around the site of the wound inflicted by James' weapon and permanently staining the material of his uniform. He should have felt hopeful, sitting here and watching out for his friends--that they should be together like this seemed absolutely miraculous--if they had returned by the hospital just a few seconds later, Herring would not be here. And who knows what had stopped that green-coated madman from finishing off Heather back in the mansion. Douglas didn't like the way this situation was panning out; there were too many factors just like that which continued to escape him. He wondered if he would ever fully understand what was going on here. Or if he would even live long enough for it to matter. He'd already silently decided that he would give up his life to protect Heather, if need be. It was the only way he would ever be able to sleep the eternal sleep in peace, knowing that he had at least tried to atone for leaving her behind three whole years ago.

Now that he was back in town, it didn't even feel like it had been three years since those strange happenings had taken place. Just being here, feeling air of this malicious place on his skin, smelling the aroma of terrible things to come--oddly pleasant, like cake, for he knew that it was good, but he also knew that it was not good for him--those things seemed to eliminate the three-year barrier between this and his last visit.

In the rearview over the dashboard, he saw Heather's face, the eyes bandaged and stained with blood. The sight chilled him; it had never occured to him exactly how much of human emotion was communicated through the eyes. Even a blind person would be able to communicate _some _kind of emotion through his or her eyes...but Heather's face was just dead. Nothing. Empty. He wondered if that would change once she awakened.

His eyes returned to the book, _Crimson Ceremony._ He hated that book, and he hated its author, and its previous owner. He knew it was irrational, but he blamed all of those people for what had happened to Heather. He had done the best he could, he was sure--at least there was that much. But that had not been enough. Which left only one alternative--that the blame lie elsewhere.

Finally, Douglas could take it no longer; he quietly opened the door and stepped out into the foggy night, taking a puff from his cigarette as he did so. The smoke was not even visible; the fog stole it away just quickly as it had come into existence. Douglas tapped it with his finger, dropping a miniscule pile of ash down onto his shoe. He kicked it off, irritated, and leaned against the side of the car with a sigh. A drop of sweat rolled down into his eye, and he blinked furiously, hissing. Odd, that he should be sweating when it was this cold outside. He felt like his mind might just catch fire and burn up if he allowed it to continue thinking as much as it had been.

Then, there was movement from within the car. Douglas turned his head slightly, expecting one of the passengers to notice him standing out here and join him. When no such thing happened, he leaned over and peered into the car through the driver's-side window.

Still asleep, the both of them. Herring had simply moved a little bit. Still no sign that Heather was even still alive. She might be breathing, but in this light it was impossible to tell if her chest was rising and falling as it should be, even in sleep.

From the corner of his eye, he saw something bright and white. He turned, feeling his heart speed up in his chest.

Nothing.

_Just my mind, _he pondered, _trying to run away with me. Maybe it's not too early to hope that all the weird stuff is over with. _

Somehow, he doubted that. As long as James was out there somewhere, this was a fatal play, a real-life game of chess, and this town was the war zone. Maybe not a conventional war zone, not the kind with lots of grenade fire and screaming and heavy artillery, but definitely a war zone.

A _silent_ war zone.

Meanwhile, his cigarette was nearing its end. Another centimeter of ash dropped off of the tip, falling to the concrete. Then another...and another...

"Wait," Douglas said, looking up. "That's not..."

It seemed to be _snowing._

"But," he sighed, swishing his hands through the air. Sure, it was cold enough--the wind generated by the movement of his hands was definitely winter temperature--but it was the middle of the year...not the season for snow, not at all.

"It's really not that weird, when you think about it," he said. "No weirder than all this fog. Or any of that other stuff." He snuffed out his cigarette and opened the car door, plopping back down in the seat.

He looked at Herring once again, and remembered his decision to leave Herring in the hospital. He wondered if that had been the right thing to do; he wondered if waiting for him would've prevented that first encounter with James.

"No," he said. "No, I won't think like that. Once you start blaming yourself, you never stop." He shut the door and rolled up the window, never taking his eyes off of Herring.

_I tell you what I should be doing right now, _he pondered. _I should be putting the pedal to the floor, sixty miles out on the highway right now. I'm crazy for still being here._

But he wasn't crazy, at least not entirely. He still had one more piece of unfinished business to resolve before he left.

"Walter," he mumbled. "I know you're out there."

Ever since he'd come out of that mansion, he'd been thinking off-and-on about Walter and Henry. He knew without a doubt that they were both guilty. For what, he wasn't sure--perhaps it had been the two of them who had staged the entire Walter Sullivan murder spree from the beginning, perhaps they'd done something to get someone to take the fall for them so they could keep up their twisted game...hell, maybe that guy with Henry wasn't even the _real_ Walter Sullivan; maybe that was just a name they'd made up, a false identity, to hide their plans. Maybe there was more to this...maybe it was deeper than he was seeing?  
"Oh, brother," he moaned. "Don't get me started now." He was getting ahead of himself. He tended to do that when he stressed; yes, this was a big and important case, but he doubted things would go that far. Walter was smart...but he wasn't a _genius._ Douglas knew that much; he'd seen that in his eyes, back in the Ashfield PD. He'd seen that stunning criminal brilliance, inhibited only by that primal animal fury, that desire to lash out, to inflict pain, no matter if it was physical or mental. If only the man could learn to overcome that animality, that simple stupidity, then he might become useful. Not now, of course, not anymore...but in a different time, in a different place, things might very well have been different. Sometimes, people just made the wrong decisions and dug their own graves.

Whatever. Whether or not they had done it, they had yet to face trial...and Douglas and Herring had not been the only ones hunting them like mad dogs. If the Ashfield police force found out that Douglas and Herring had let them out of their cells for the reason they had--and they _would _find out, if Douglas and Herring did not return with Henry and Walter by tomorrow morning, either that or two bodies and a damned good story about how they'd tried to escape and gotten shot--then it would mean both of their jobs. Both of their _careers_. Once again, Douglas would be a penniless good-for-nothing, too old to start a new career. His life would be ruined.

It crossed his mind to wonder where those two might be, Walter and Henry. Even if they were headed this way, as they had implied, then there was still no telling. They could have hitched a ride and gotten here hours ago, or they could be arriving on foot at this very moment, somewhere near the edge of town. There was no way to tell from which point they might enter, or how long they'd been here if they were already here, or where they were going exactly. What business did they have in this town?

Well, if he recalled, Henry had wanted to visit the gravesite of Walter Sullivan--'the Other Walter,' as he had called him. What a crock. He still couldn't believe that he had allowed them to deceive him like that. There was no 'other Walter,' never had been.

_Then what about that other body? _a voice spoke up from the back of his mind. _The one you found in his room? If there's no other Walter...then who's body is that?_

"Easy," he said. "Decoy. They haven't tested the prints yet. It could be anybody."

_Maybe, _the little voice responded. _Maybe, maybe not._

"Not now," he mumbled. "Just...not now." He reached for the book on the dashboard and plucked it up, flipping back to the entry he'd read earlier.

_Speak. I am the Crimson One. The lies and the mist are not they but I. You all know that I am One. Yes, and the One is I._

"What _is _this crap...?" Douglas whispered, turning the pages. Several of the subsequent ones were blank, but then there were a few more entries. These, too, were written in that strange archaic script.

"'Believers, Hearken to me!'" he read. "'Twenty score men and seven thousand beasts. Heed my words and speaketh them to all, that they shall ever be obeyed even under the light of the proud and merciless sun.'"

From the corner of his eye, Douglas thought he saw something spark, just to the left of the vehicle. He turned his head...and saw nothing. All the same, he left his eye trained on that spot for another moment before dismissing it as an illusion and returning to the book.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Herring awoke to an almost complete lack of visual input; for this reason, the first thing of which he was completely aware was a rumbling sensation, perhaps that of some heavy machinery. He tried to lift his head and instead smacked it into something hard. Looking up, he saw two bright round swatches of light on the pavement up ahead. One glance to the left told him that he was in the car with Douglas and Heather. With his initial disorientation removed, he shook his head a bit and sat up.

"Where are we going?" Herring asked.

"Oh," Douglas said. "You're awake."

"Yeah," Herring agreed. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere," Douglas said cryptically. "Anywhere. Hell, I don't know. All I _do _know is, we can't just sit still. That guy, James, is gonna come after us, you know."

"I figured," Herring said. "But we can't just drive around like this. We have to do something, make a move against him."

"Any ideas?" Douglas said in a half-whisper so dry that Herring couldn't tell if he was being hopeful or sarcastic.

"Well, in any other situation, I'd say we should arm ourselves," Herring said. "But this is different. Since weapons can't do any good...I know he has a weak point--he _has _to, nothing in this universe is without flaw, not unless we're talking about God himself. But I know James is no God. He's just a monster, nothing more. A monster in human clothing."

"The catch with that is," Douglas interjected, "the properties of 'how to go about the process of killing a monster' haven't been established by modern science just yet."

"Yeah," Herring said, trying to sound indifferent. "So I guess the point of it is, how do we find out how to beat him? Or at least, how to get him to leave us alone?"

Silence rushed in to fill the empty air of the cab.

"I think the first step in that direction would be to figure out how James relates to this," Douglas said, tapping the book on the dashboard. "He seemed really adamant about keeping Heather away from it before. If we could figure out why, then that might at least point us in the right direction."

"But we don't even know why she wanted it," Herring said.

"Yeah, we do," Douglas corrected. "She wanted to use it to see her father again, whatever she means by that."

"She told you this?" Herring said, raising an eyebrow. Then, when Douglas nodded, he added, "When?"

"Under the hospital," Douglas said.

"Is that where you two went?" Herring said. "Did that have something to do with her dad?"

"No," Douglas said, starting to sound irritated. "Just...don't worry about it. It's nothing I'd rather talk about at the moment, anyway."

"Well, it's something _I'd _rather talk about," Herring said. "I need to know everything you know about this. If I don't, you're putting me at a risk, here. And yourself, too."

Douglas continued to stare at the road ahead of him. They were coming to an intersection, so Douglas eased up on the gas a bit.

"And don't even try this whole, 'stay out of this, I can handle it on my own' crap," Herring continued. "That jive might work with the guys back in Ashfield, but it won't fly with me. I know you."

Douglas stopped at the intersection. "All I know about this is what Heather told me, and that tells me absolutely nothing. Which means that Heather probably doesn't _know _why James wanted to stop her. It's probably something bigger than what she thought she was dealing with."

"In which case," Herring said thoughtfully, "we'll have to go straight to James for the answers we want." He seemed to shiver when he said that.

"Which is not an option," Douglas said.

"Yeah," Herring agreed. "And we probably wouldn't be able to trick him, or anything--he's either really, really intuitive, or he spies on us somehow. I'd opt for some kind of combination of the two."

"What, you think he's clairvoyant?"

"He's immortal," Herring said. "Why not clairvoyant, too? And how else do you explain the way he always seems to conveniently know where we are?"

"He could have spies," Douglas said. "Maybe there's more than one person like him."

"I think they would have shown themselves by now," Herring said. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless he's hiding them on _purpose_...so we'll _think _he's clairvoyant. Maybe he expects us to try and second-guess him, and he's using our lack of knowledge about his 'powers' as a sort of shield against us. Poison us with misinformation. Make it seem like he's so confident with his abilities that he feels like he can just pick on us whenever he pleases."

"That's kind of farfetched," Douglas said. "And unconventional."

"Well, he probably knows that we have combat experience," Herring continued. "In that case, he'd know that we'd expect something conventional. Which goes back to my idea--that he's making it seem like he has these 'powers' so we'll try to second-guess him with our conventional knowledge, when all along it was something so simple, yet so unconventional."

"You know," Douglas said, seeming to allow the ghost of a smile to possess his lips, "it's so crazy...it actually sounds ingenious."

"I'll bet that's how it works, too," Herring said. "You know, Occam's razor and all that."

Douglas reached over and nudged Herring with one elbow, making sure to avoid his partner's bad arm. "You know, I'm starting to remember why we were partners in the first place."

"I'm a bit shattered that you ever forgot," Herring said, grinning like an idiot.

"So where to, then?" Douglas asked. The car was still sputtering in place at the intersection. "If what you say is true, then his power is just a facade for a giant weakness."

"Yes," Herring said. "I'd say that whatever power he tries to push on us--whatever he acts like he _wants _us to see--is probably the key. The catch is, we _know _he's immortal. So he probably _does _have some other powers. It's best not to assume that just _anything_ he uses against us is his 'facade.'"

"So how do we know which is which?" Douglas said.

"We don't," Herring said. "At least, not in any way I know."

"So then, the whole thing is just pointless. Another gamble. Another possibility without any proof."

"I wouldn't say that," Herring said. "Necessarily. We just have to know what to watch for. See how he acts. Maybe...maybe next time we see him, we can conduct a little 'experiment.'"

"You're crazy," Douglas said. "You're in no condition to be playing around with that guy."

"But he's bound to catch up to us sooner or later, anyway," Herring said. "And I, for one, am sick of running scared from him. I kinda want to hurt him for what he did to your friend, there." He thumbed back to Heather. "Something tells me that was totally uncalled-for."

"First thing," Douglas said. "He won't be catching up to us as long as I'm driving. Not unless he's clairvoyant. And if he is, I highly doubt we'll have the time or the controlled environment necessary to 'experiment' with him. Hell, we won't be able to do anything--we can't experiment with someone who knows what we're looking for. He can just pretend to give us what we want, then stomp us with it later."

With this, Herring could not argue.

"Are we talking about James again?" Heather's voice carried up from the back seat.

"Heather!" Douglas exclaimed. "You're alive!"

"Better," Herring said, "you're awake, too."

"Yeah," she said. "I woke up a few minutes ago, but my head was killing me, so I went back to sleep for a minute."

Douglas and Herring waited to see if she would acknowledge--even _realize--_the fact that she was completely blind.

"I was just thinking," she said, increasing the unspoken tension between them. "Now that I have the book, we might be able to stop him."

"What do you mean?" Douglas said. "There's nothing in there but weird cult literature."

"No," Heather said. "Not at all. It's weird, and it sounds like it belongs in a cult. But a friend of mine was helping me do some research on it, and he figured out a lot of stuff. A lot of hidden clues in the book."

"Clues?" Herring asked, clearly intrigued. "What kind of clues?"

"They were about this ceremony called 'the Ressurection of the Dead.' It's a ritual that's woven in with the ancient literature of the Order." She turned to Herring. "The Order is the name of the cult that runs this town."

"Yeah, I've had my share of run-ins with their kind."

"What about this ritual?" Douglas cut in.

"Yeah, the ritual," Heather said, resuming her monologue. "There was a guy in town who was studying it awhile back. He's the guy who used to live in the mansion on Monson Street. The way I heard it, his daughter died in a tragic accident, and he spent the rest of his life studying the cult's texts, trying to find a way to perform the ritual." Sounds came from the back seat, indicating that Heather was situating herself more comfortably. "When the city claimed the mansion last year and turned it into a historical site, a lot of those occult papers were taken out and put somewhere."

"Where?" Herring asked.

"I don't know," Heather said. "My friend had some connections, but he said all he could tell me was that it looked like a cover-up, God knows why. He offered to get the papers for me, and I never even asked him. I thought it was suspicious, but I took advantage of it anyway."

"Who was this 'friend' of yours?" Douglas said.

"A guy named Mark Ortmann," she said. "He was a friend of Stanley's."

"Who's Stanley?" Douglas said. He sounded impatient.

"Just a friend," she said. "It's a long story. Maybe I'll tell you that part later. Anyway, once he told me that Stanley was the one who had asked him to get ahold of those papers for me, I knew something was up. I just didn't know what. Mark knew that the doctors wouldn't let me keep those papers, because they might contribute to my 'condition.' So he let me read them one day when he visited me. Not too long after that, James showed up, and everything went to hell."

"That's all great," Douglas said, "but how is any of this going to help us against James?"

"That's just it," she said. "Mark gave me reason to believe that _James _has performed the ritual before, and with success."

"That's crazy," Herring said. "You can't bring people back from the dead."

"This is Silent Hill," Douglas said. "Coming back from the dead isn't too far of a jump from not being able to die at all."

"I don't care," Herring said. "If I was dead, this is one place I would _not _use to come back to the land of the living. I'd rather stay dead."

"Maybe you wouldn't have a choice," Heather said coldly, and for some reason, it sounded like a threat. Douglas eyed her in the rearview mirror, watching her 'stare' at the back of Herring's head, and he could almost see her eyes as if they were still there, dark and furious. Herring's comment seemed to have angered her deeply...but then her face relaxed a bit, and Douglas figured it had just been irritation at being interrupted again.

"What reason was this?" Douglas asked. "This 'reason to believe' you mentioned?"  
"Well," Heather began, sounding unsure of herself. "When he first told me, I thought it was insane, for the same reason that Mr. Herring does. I thought, 'you can't bring people back from the dead. It's a one-way process.' But he told me about this guy who had come to town a couple of years back and done something awful. His name was James."

Silence, again.

"James killed his wife," she said. "You already know that. He did it right before he came to town, maybe even the same day. He wasn't the only one who came, and he wasn't the only one who stayed...but he was the only one who did the unthinkable. Mark said that James spoke to a God."

"A God?" Douglas said.

"Yes," Heather confirmed. "Mark said he wasn't to say for sure if James actually spoke to a real, in-the-flesh _God,_ but that seems to be the only explanation. Because, Mark said, when James performed the ritual, he created a world all his own. Kind of a twisted parallel to reality."

"This sounds familiar," Douglas said.

"It does," Heather agreed. "Claudia did something very similar, a couple of years ago. I've come to think that killing my father was what triggered it; some part of me knew when he was dead--I had this gut feeling, and I think maybe that's why I had the nightmare, and then all that stuff started to happen. Claudia killed my father, then came to the mall to get me. Not _kill _me, but to try to revive the part of me that was Alessa."

Douglas took a moment to contemplate the fact that, if he had simply gone to the Mason home first_, before _confronting Heather, he might very well have been there to stop Claudia from killing Harry. Not that he would've been able to, not necessarily...but the possibility haunted him.

Herring threw his hands up. "Okay, now you've lost me," he said. "Claudia? Alessa? God? What's all this about?" He turned to his partner. "Douglas? Do you know what she's talking about? Does any of this have anything to do with the story you told at the police department?"

Heather sighed. "It's a really long story, Mr. Herring, and I really don't have the time to explain it all right now."

Herring grumbled, obviously irritated. He seemed to know that he was being excluded in some strange and fundamental way. "I don't like this," he said.

"Sorry," Heather said, irritated. "Anyway; I asked Mark how he knew these things, and he said, 'Truly, I don't. I don't even know if I _believe _them.' He relayed that Stanley had claimed to know these things, and he told me what Stanley had told _him_: that James created this other reality, and he wanders around inside it, obsessively trying to protect something. Now, I don't know _what _he's protecting, or _why_, but I do know that something's there. Something he doesn't want _anyone_ to get close to. Like he's afraid they're going to steal it, or break it, or harm it in some way. And whatever it is, it has something to do with the ritual he performed."

"How do you know it has something to do with the ritual?" Douglas asked, enthralled. It seemed, after all, that they might yet have a chance to throw a wrench in the works of James...but only if he could keep track of this conversation. "Did he tell you that, too?"

"He didn't, and I don't," she said. "Not for sure, anyway. Call it a theory. But a theory with a lot of support. Mainly, the fact that he imprisoned me under the hospital, in a crazy corner of his reality, just for trying to obtain those papers--the ones that had the studies on the ritual." She leaned up in between Herring and Douglas, as if for emphasis. "It's like he didn't even want me to know that the ritual _existed,_ much less how to perform it. He killed Mark, just for helping me out. And if Leonard hadn't gotten Stanley first, I think James would've killed _him_, too. For helping lead Mark to me."

"Jesus," Douglas said. "So this guy can get to people in the normal reality, too?"

"In a sense," Heather said. "I don't know _how _he killed Mark, but when I heard about it--they didn't let me watch the news at Brookhaven, but someone slipped up and told me about it--I knew right away that something was fishy. When James came for me, I knew it was him who'd killed Mark. There's no mistaking that man's methods."

Douglas furrowed his brow. "So, he doesn't want anyone getting near the knowledge required to perform this 'ritual.'"

"No, he doesn't," Heather said, readjusting her position once again and rocking the car oh-so-slightly in the process. "He acts _really _paranoid about it. Anytime he even hears the words _Crimson Ceremony _spoken, he gets agitated."

"One thing that still confuses me," Douglas said. "He wanted to kill you just for _wondering _about this ritual, right? Or for actually researching it, or whatever?"

Heather cocked her head. "I'm not real sure about that one. I thought so at first, but then I figured that if he wanted me dead, he could've done it himself. I suppose it's possible that he just thought he would allow Laurence to mess with me, for fun, but that doesn't feel right to me. He's never done that to anyone else--not to my knowledge--and I don't see anything that's special about me, nothing that would make him afraid to kill me."

"Maybe that's just it," Douglas said. "Maybe, for some reason, he _is _afraid to kill you?"

"I don't think so," she said. "I mean, he _did _handle me like he was uncomfortable around me, but I didn't really sense _fear _from him. He wanted to kill me, I could tell he wanted to, but he didn't."

"Finding out why would be a step in the right direction," Douglas said, adding on to Herring's earlier plan. "We might be able to use that against him at some point, if it comes to that."

"It's good to know, in any case," Herring agreed.

"The main thing I want to know is," Heather resumed, "why is he so paranoid about the ritual?" She pursed her lips in hesitation. "I mean, I have my theories--one in particular--but even so, I don't see any easy way to stop him. So I don't see any reason for him to be afraid."

It was Herring's turn to speak up. "Maybe there's no _easy _way to stop him, but that doesn't mean there isn't any way to stop him at all. Maybe he's afraid because, somewhere in that book, there's a key to beating him, to undoing this 'other world' you're talking about. Maybe he has a sort of 'blind spot', yet he's aware of it. Maybe he's willing to do anything to make sure nobody else finds out about it."

"That's actually what I was thinking," Heather said. "The way I see it, there's only one way to stop him."

"And what's that?" Douglas asked. "Do you know?"

"Well, before he awakened whatever was sleeping in this town, he was a normal, mortal man--at least, as normal as a man like James can get. It wasn't until after he did the ritual that he gained all of those superhuman powers of his. So maybe whatever he's protecting, whatever it is that's hidden inside his world, is what's giving him all of his power."

"Like a battery," Herring observed, awestruck. This was, indeed, a key element against James.

"Exactly," Heather said. "So, in order to defeat James, I don't think we're _supposed _to fight him head-on. He'll kill us, cut us down where we stand, if we try to fight him, because it's not really _him _at all, it's a facade, a golem with James' mind and memories--I think the real James is long gone. I mean, it's his _body_, and it's his _memory_...but it's not the same man anymore. He's been...I don't know, _polluted _by whatever lives in this town. Changed for the worse, so his obsession has become deadly. We have to go to the source, and find where his power is coming from. We have to find it, and we have to stop it. Jam it up before he kills us."

"Brilliant," Herring said. "It's all so simple, so...damned...simple..."

"Tell me about it," Douglas said. In the back of his mind, he thought he might know exactly what they would be looking for, too. Ressurection of the Dead, eh? How quickly the tables seemed to have turned!

"So," Herring intruded once again, "where do we start? Looking, I mean?"

"Good question," Heather said. "I'm not sure what degree of control James exerts over his reality. If it's too high, we might have a problem even looking. I might know where to start, but he'd just kill us where we stood as soon as we started looking. On the other hand...if it's too low, then there's no way to say with certainty where to look--because he might not have made a conscious decision of where to put it--but we wouldn't have to worry about _him_ as much. Under better circumstances, I'd say we split up, so he can't get us all at once, but that won't work for obvious reasons."

"So, where to?" Douglas reiterated, once again growing impatient. He didn't want to sit here longer than he had to--for obvious reasons.

"I'd say, if he can control his world at all, he would put his treasure--because it _has _to be something of value--in a place that he holds close to his heart. Maybe a place of good memories, or just a place he likes for any reason. But it wouldn't be right on top; it would be well-hidden."

"You know a place like that?" Herring asked.

"I might," she said. "I have a couple of ideas...but keep in mind, they might be completely wrong."

"Doesn't matter," Douglas said. "We're toast if we stay still, the way things are."

Heather nodded. "Okay, then. I didn't learn much about James from Mark or Stanley, but judging from things I heard Laurence say, James likes to hang out in two places--one is the Lakeview Hotel, on the other side of Toluca Lake (you know, near the lighthouse--it's just down the street from that little green motel), and the other is the Silent Hill Historical Society."

"The SHHS?" Douglas said. "Why there? Isn't that just a museum?"

"Basically," Heather said. "I don't know why he hangs there--though, if I had to guess, I'd say because of the prison--but that's what I heard." Then, after another brief hesitation: "Keep in mind, this might have been thought out from the beginning; maybe Laurence knew that you were coming, anticipated his own death, and decided to use my own head against me. Maybe he told me those things because he knew what I knew, and that I'd try to use it against him...I don't know, all this thinking is making my head hurt."

"You're not the only one," Herring said. "If it pleases the court, I'd really, really appreciate it if someone sat me down and explained this whole deal to me, once this is all over."

"Sure," Douglas agreed. "But that's still a ways off. I still wonder what exactly we're supposed to do once we get to this place, assuming it's the right one. We have no game plan, people. What exactly are we supposed to do, if and when we come across this 'source?'"

"That depends," Heather said. "We destroy it, if we can...or, if we can't, we have to put it somewhere where it can never be found, not in a million years."

In spite of the pleasant vibes which seemed to have permeated the car, Douglas had a very, very bad feeling about all of this. He shouldn't; things finally seemed to be looking up, to be going in their favor, but all the same...he felt a strong, unpleasant sensation, like how a satellite might detect the approach of some distant apocalyptic meteor, screaming towards an unsuspecting earth, hurrying it to its demise. Douglas knew that probably wasn't going to be the case, at least not to that extent...but, at the very least, he didn't want to be that 'unsuspecting earth.' He wanted to be ready for whatever was coming.

He didn't fully understand his doubt, only that it involved a recurring phrase, a phrase which James himself had uttered not too long ago: _If he'd just killed her, then this would be over, all of you would be sleeping peacefully in your beds, at home with your loved ones. It's all _her _fault! She_ _called you here! _In his mind he saw James' finger pointing at Heather, vehement, accusing. He saw this, saw James' reaction full of what honestly seemed like sincerity...and he wondered what had possessed the man to think that he was in the right. To think that _Heather _was the one responsible for all of this. He wondered why James blamed _her _for being the recipient of information for which she had not even asked. The man must be the worst kind of self-righteous psychopath to think that such information was so important, it warranted killing someone who had learned it by accident.

Thinking these thoughts, feeling his head cramp from the effort, Douglas drove on, and it never crossed his mind--not _once_, not until it was too late--that he and Herring might not be partners anymore, come morning.

END OF CHAPTER 22


	23. Waiting for a Warning

**Chapter 23**

**Waiting for a Warning**

_"Now the neighborhood is cracked and torn_

_The kids are grown up but their lives are worn_

_How can one little street swallow so many lives?"_

"The Kids Aren't Alright," _The Offspring_

_(Americana)_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time he'd reached the police station--this time with the intent of going inside--the temperature outside had dropped to below freezing. Before, his thick black outfit had been enough to shelter him from the unforgiving weather, but now he was beginning to lose the feeling in the tips of his fingers and toes. If he didn't find a place to warm up before too long, frostbite was a very real possibility. So, when he reached out his hand and pulled on the handle of the presumably deserted Silent Hill Police HQ's front door, he was disheartened to find that it was locked. He jiggled the handle to no avail.

"Damn it," Steven muttered, covering his mouth with his hands and blowing onto them. It warmed them for a second, but the cold which assaulted them the instant he took them down actually seemed to be worse than before; now that his hands had tasted warmth, nothing else would do. He wondered if Eileen, wherever she may be, was suffering from the cold.

"In any case," he said, shivering, "I've got to get in there." He pressed his face against the glass panel on the front door, intending to look inside, but he pulled it away before he could see anything. The glass was unbearably cold; he should've expected that. He probably would have, had be been thinking straight. But the cold was already starting to get to him.

Off in the distance--from which direction, Steven could not be certain--a loud honk issued through the night, seeking out Steven like a complicated homing device. It was the familiar sound of a car horn.

"Shit," he hissed, turning back to the PD's main door. Locked it may be, but it was also made of glass. And given the choice of breaking into a police department (which may or may not be deserted, he reminded himself) or facing that oddball vehicle again, he would take the break-in any day. He covered his fisted hands with his sleeves, clasped them together, and used them as a club to shatter the glass panel on the front door. Then, his hands still covered with his sleeves (although he detected a sharp pain in his right wrist, suggesting that the sleeve might not have provided sufficient protection), he reached into the building and unlocked the door, allowing himself in. Though he knew the act was pointless, he shut the door behind him.

The lobby was very small for a police HQ, even one in a town as small as this. A high counter ran the length of the far wall, with several little stations at which receptionists or something of the like would probably stand under more normal circumstances. Two doors lead out of the room, one to the left and one to the right, each one flanked by two narrow, cushionless benches, which extended along the walls away from the doors.

Still feeling the cold biting into his extremities, Steven opted to try the door to the left--soon, the lobby would fill with freezing air, and he wanted to be out of here before that happened. Strangely enough, this door was unlocked, and it lead him into a small office area.

_That's odd, _Steven pondered. _Why would they lock the main entrance, but leave their offices unlocked?_ But he dismissed the thought when his eyes fell on the blackboard, positioned against the wall to the immediate left of the door. Not actually the blackboard itself, but the words written on it.

_NO ACCIDENT._

Steven approached the blackboard, which sat perpendicular to a small desk covered in papers and other useless junk, and wiped his hand across it. Five transparent streaks cut through the chalk letters, revealing the green board beneath. "No accident," he read out loud. "Is this...?"

_Is this about Miriam? _his mind asked, finishing the thought that his mouth had been unable to. _I have a feeling it is. A very strong feeling. But who wrote it?_

"Doesn't matter," he said.

A breeze drifted across the back of his neck, and he pivoted ninety degrees.

Nothing. Just a door, standing at the far end of the room, and another one to his right--the one through which he'd come.

_It's here,_ he thought. _Whatver it is, it's here. I just know it._

He started towards the door. Reached it. Placed his hand around the knob. Turned it. Opened the door.

He now stood before what looked like a locker room. Three short rows of about six dark blue lockers each, one going off to each side and one running straight ahead, down the center. Robin's-egg-blue floor tiles, flourescent ceiling fixtures. At the far end of the room, another row of lockers ran along the wall.

Steven started down the aisle.

At the end, the path branched to the left and right. Each branch ended in another door.

_Where to? _he wondered. _It could be anywhere. And I'm not even sure if I _want _to run into it, just yet._

After another moment's hesitation, he opted for the left-hand road.

On the other side of this door was another, longer office. Directly in front of him was an oblong rectangular desk, extending away from him and almost to the far wall, which was composed of a much larger (and very picturesque) window. The window covered most of the wall, running the full length of the room with only a few inches on either end. It afforded a brilliant (but obstructed, thanks to the fog) view of the street that connected to the drawbridge, in the direction from which he had come. In the midst of the foggy streets, it would have been a bone-chilling sight, but from this side of the glass, it seemed much more tranquil (even though, Steven knew, glass was hardly going to protect him from the likes of that insane driver, should he or she decide to come back at this instant for another round). Every few feet or so down the length of the window, another of those long desks divided the room into smaller and smaller segments. From here, Steven counted five such desks, each cluttered with an unimaginable amount of computer hardware, paperwork, drinks, food, wrappers, and countless other items. Continuing to his right, watching out the window with wide, paranoid eyes, Steven almost missed a very important object, something that he was glad he saw when, at last, his eyes fell upon it.

On the third desk from the entrance, a strangely-shaped grey pistol with brown wooden inlays lay atop a large yellow notepad, pointing away from Steven. The handle was canted up slightly, as if something were propping up the yellow notebook which served as a makeshift pedestal for the gun.

"Not again," Steven said. But he reached out and slipped his fingers around the rubber grip anyway, feeling it over with both hands. The barrel was emblazened with a company logo with which he was not familiar--some kind of Asian script, maybe Japanese or Chinese, over a crude rendition of what appeared to be a cockroach. What a strange logo for a firearms manufacturer.

Steven depressed the clip, checked for ammunition. Ten rounds. But they weren't just any rounds--this was a ten-millimeter pistol, much stronger than anything the cops would use. This was the kind of gun you shot to kill with. Although he was slightly disturbed by the thought of having to use the weapon (he couldn't shake the image of a much larger version of that cat thing he'd seen in that alley), he was more comforted by the idea of having it in case he needed it--better to have and not need than to need and not have, he mused--so he squeezed the barrel in between his leather belt and the waist of his pants. Somehow, he didn't think it would be missed, anyway.

At the end of the room, another door (to the right) opened onto a staircase. It went up for a ways before turning at two narrow 45-degree angles, then continuing upward again. The stairs ended in a narrow booth, which opened up onto another office, this one without any other exits. Probably the chief's office.

Steven stepped forward into the room, shutting the door behind him. He saw something moving out of the corner of his eye, shot his head down to see what it was, and observed his own reflection, staring up at him from the obscenely clean white tiles. With that issue resolved, he turned to face the desk which stood at the end of the room, under a painting of what looked like a man standing over some kind of complicated piece of machinery, waving two narrow objects up in the air over his head. The expression on the man's face was indeterminable from here.

"Miriam," Steven said, just above his breath. "I know you're here, somewhere. Why don't you show yourself? Or at least speak to me? Give me a sign?" He took another step forward, regarding his surroundings with an awareness like none he had ever felt before. He could already feel adrenaline rushing to every corner of his body, preparing him for whatever was to come. "I don't know what else to do. This is...well, it's so much different from what I imagined." He reached the desk and leaned over it, examining the painting above it--which, he realized, was not a painting at all but a large photograph. It was of a short, stocky man wearing a black suit, minus the coat, and a crazy black-and-white diagonal-striped tie. The "complicated machinery" over which he was standing was now visible as a large drum kit, the narrow objects over his head as drumsticks. On the solid black bass drum was displayed a strange emblem with which Steven was not familiar--a pale cartoon hand tightly grasping what looked like a hand-grenade (complete with pin) shaped like a heart (complete with seeping blood)--and, over the emblem, the words _GREEN DAY._

_Green Day? _Steven wondered. _What's _that _supposed to mean? I mean, it's probably some kind of metal band, or something like that--whatever people are listening to nowadays--but Green Day? That's sort of an odd name. I wonder..._He couldn't help but think that the phrase might hold some kind of significance to his little quest.

Before this rumination could proceed any further, a distant crash echoed from downstairs. It was faint, but very loud, like a large object being knocked over. He tried to recall if there were any lamps or other such things downstairs, and could not.

"Miriam?" He whispered, unable to raise his voice any higher. His intent had been to grab her attention, if indeed she was here, but his instinct--to refrain from alarming any predator of his presence--had overwhelmed him.

Then, footsteps from beyond the door. Very quick, light, rapid--_pitpitpitpitpit._ They weren't up here yet, but all the same, Steven was alarmed. He raced across the room and flipped the lock--a simple little rotary dial--and backed away from the door. He didn't know why, but the rapidity of those footsteps made him very, very uncomfortable. It wasn't that they were threatening, per se, but there was a certain unfamiliarity to them that just sort of rubbed him the wrong way. It had been mostly instinct which had warned him to lock the door.

_Tap-tap-tap._

Knocking on the door.

_Tap-tap-tap._

Steven felt his heart racing, and realized that he was breathing very hard. To either side of the booth which opened onto the stairwell, Steven noticed two windows, both blinded. He wondered if he would be able to survive a jump out of one of them, if need be. A stupid thing to think, really.

_Tap-tap-tap. Shuffle-shuffle._

A noise, like somebody wiping their feet extremely quickly on a welcome-mat, or something. Again, Steven felt a pang of sheer unpleasant emotion erupt from his chest. He was suddenly very sure that he didn't want to see who was on the other side of that door. He found himself wishing he still had his silver cross. Without it, he felt powerless.

_Shooka-shooka._

"Shit," Steven muttered. The lock. He or she--or it--was trying the lock. Jiggling the handle. "Shit," Steven repeated, feeling behind him on the desk for anything that would help him resist the intruder, should it make its way into the room. Then, he remembered the ten millimeter, and drew it. He aimed at the door. "Go away," he said in a stern but frightened voice.

"Booga," a raspy voice said from behind the door. The word sent a chill down his spine, even though it was only a childhood noise, nothing more. "Booga, booga! Linka!"

"What?" Steven said, raising an eyebrow. "What...what?"

"Booga booga, linka!" The person(?) repeated. "Shinga, booga linka maria booga! Shinga booga linka maria Steven!"

The sound of his own name, coming from that unmistakably foreign source, caused Steven's heart rate to double. He felt like he might faint. Who the hell was back there, and why was he or she speaking like that? It sounded like complete gibberish...but at the same time, there was an eerie clarity to it, as if it were some kind of strange language.

"Shinka...booga?" Steven said, unsure of what exactly he was communicating to the being on the other side of the door. "What does that mean?"

"Nick," the thing said. "Nick shinka booga." A brief, unpleasant sound, like a horse blowing its lips away from its gums. "Nayka shinga booga linka maria Steven! Shinga booga linka maria Steven dega Miriam!"

_Miriam?_ Steven's mind echoed. His blood felt like it had frozen over in an instant.

"Shinga booga, dega locka _egun _Steven," the being said, and then began making a low, guttural noise.

Steven raised the gun. "Whoever or whatever you are, I'm telling you to leave right now. Just turn and go the other way, or I'll take you out right here." He pulled back the slide on the gun, producing a loud _click_ for emphasis. The visceral quality of that word, _egun,_ had frightened Steven. It had sounded like a threat. Or perhaps a warning of some kind.

The guttural noise continued, and this time the creature spoke in a voice that was undoubtedly _not _human. "Shinga dega locka _egun _Steven." Then, the door rattled in its frame. The middle section of the door splintered a bit, cracking inward. Steven cried out, terrified.

"Stop it!" He said, and began to squeeze the trigger.

The door shook again, and this time the middle splintered violently. Still not enough to see the thing on the other side--Steven figured that was probably more than a small favor. He fired the gun, straight at the source of the splintering. Once, twice, three times--_BLAM, BLAM, _and _BLAM! _Very loud, very powerful. The sound enraged his eardrums, which would likely repay the favor later in the form of a splitting headache. The ear-splitting noise was followed by a high-pitched squeal, almost too high for his ears to register, followed by an equally low and much more guttural noise. Then, more of those rapid footsteps. The door at the bottom of the stairwell could be heard slamming closed even from up here. The footsteps faded quickly.

Steven stood there, aiming the weapon at the door, for what felt like a very long time--he was not able to move until he had listened long enough to confirm that the thing (for it must be a thing, no human could have survived that) was not going to come back, at least not right away. Then, easing towards the door with the gun still raised, he examined the splintering caused by the strange-speaking thing. The wood on the center of the door had been broken inward in a small ring shape, as if some circular object had been used to push out and downward against the door. But just a few inches outside of that ring, a wider circle of splintering was visible. The catch was, this outer ring was broken _outward, _unlike the inner ring. Steven could not imagine what kind of tool--or even what kind of natural offensive measure--would produce this pattern. It struck a chord deep within Steven, and he had time to wonder about something both very simple and yet very disturbing...what if, the reason all of these things he was seeing were disturbing him so, seemingly without purpose, was because some part of him, some spiritual or celestial aspect left over from the time of his creation--the part of him that remembered the time before he had come into existence--_recognized _them? What if part of his subconscious mind recognized them as things which really did exist--or _had _existed--outside of the known world, the _mortal_ world? What if these things were simply residue of some catastrophic spiritual mishap, and it was his simple horrible luck to stumble upon them? He figured it would be no harder for an unsuspecting person like himself to accidentally stumble into some kind of hole in the universe than it would be for a tiny flea to accidentally make its way through the pant leg of an infested dog's owner, only to become trapped beneath the fabric, unable to find its way back to the entrance.

_I've got to stop this,_ he thought. _I'm going to drive myself crazy. I've already got one awful headache--and not just because of that gunshot, either._

He started to open the door when a loud, high-pitched noise startled a brief scream of surprised terror out of him. He pivoted only to find that the phone on what he had deemed the Police Chief's desk was ringing.

"This again?" he whined, approaching the desk with a rising lump in his throat. He gripped the handset, hesitating to pick it up, all too sure that he would hear the disturbing voice of that strange thing speaking to him from the other end of the line. Finally, though, he worked up the courage to pick it up--with all that he knew about what was going on here, he figured it would be best for him to try and follow what few of these wayward 'clues' were offered to him; if nothing else, he could accept them as guidance from a higher power. What better time to turn to religion than now?

"Hello?" Steven asked, trying not to choke on his own voice and only barely succeeding.

"I'm so sorry," the voice said. It was familiar as hell--the same voice he'd heard at city hall, that was for certain. He _knew _that voice! But from where? He knew that finding out the answer to that question was a task he urgently needed to accomplish. "I'm so sorry, Father. I didn't mean to get you wrapped up in this mess. I didn't know they were going to follow you."

"_They?_" Steven said, feeling his heart rise into his throat. He imagined more of those unspeakable things, muttering their otherworldly language to one another, planning, trying to get in here at him somehow. "What do you mean, _they_? There's more than one of them?"

"You've encountered them, already?" the voice said. "Oh, no. Oh, dear, oh no...oh, my..."

"What?" Steven said, clenching the handset very tightly. "What? _Talk to me!_"

"I don't have time," the voice said. "Just listen, okay? You've got to leave there, right now. They can't get at you where you are, but they can see you, and they're working. Fast. You've got to leave there before it shows up."

"Before what shows--"

"You should have just a couple of minutes before they figure out how to get in. Use that time. Go out the front door. And grab the stuff out of my locker on the way, will you? You'll need it."

"What?" Steven said, perplexed. He was deeply afraid now, for he knew that he was being given information vital to his survival, and he was unable to process much of it. "Who are 'they,' and what stuff are you talking about? I don't even know who you are, much less what locker--"

"She never _told _you?!" the voice reprimanded, sounding very agitated--perhaps moreso than Steven himself was, right now. "Listen, I don't have much time, and you've got even less. My locker number is 335. You passed by it on your way in. If you're quick, you can open it and get what you need before they find you, but _only _if you're quick. There should be a bench sitting right in front of my locker. If you feel underneath it, you'll find a yellow sticky note with the combination. Enter it and take the items in my locker. Then _get the hell out._ Don't look back. Don't try to hide, because they'll find you."

"Where do I go?" Steven asked, now both terrified _and _confused. "What do I do with the items?"

"You don't even--" the voice halted, and there was the sound of something creaking. "Listen, I've got to go. There's no time. Just get moving, you'll have to figure it out on your own now."

"But I--"

_Click._

Steven stood there, the phone pressed up to his ear, his heart beating at an insane speed and his mind racing through countless possible scenarios. He knew now that coming here at all had been a very, very big mistake. He only wished that he'd been able to have that phone conversation in a less panicked context, if for no other reason than to soothe his own anxiety. Remembering what the caller had said about hurrying, he turned and bolted for the door, tearing it open.

A splatter of thick red-and-yellow goo--blood, it seemed, although it looked like it was mixed with some other, thicker substance, obscenely like ketchup smeared with mustard--decorated the wall just inside the booth, and a thinner trail lead down the stairs and through the door at the bottom. Apparently, the creature that had harrassed him was capable of opening and closing doors. That was not good, but he figured it should have been expected from a creature that appeared to be able to speak its own language. He reached the bottom of the stairs and opened the door, almost tripping forward into the large office.

Immediately, he knew what the sound he'd heard upstairs--the sound of some large object being shattered--was: The middle section of the long window had been obliterated, cracked inward by some intruder. Glass littered the floor in front of the gaping hole, which was pouring in gallon after gallon of blizzard-in-a-can. The room already felt like it belonged in a subarctic territory. Nonetheless, Steven tried to shrug off the unbearable cold and ran down the length of the room, back towards the way he'd first come in, his arms tucked under each other for warmth. He opened the door to the locker room and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

He hadn't noticed it in the previous room--he'd been too distracted by the sudden cold--but the trail of blood continued through this room, disappearing down the middle row of lockers. Steven stopped in front of the first bench he saw, running parallel to the row of lockers against the wall to his left. He scanned the lockers, finding number 335 almost right next to him. Then, remembering the rest of the information he'd been given, he felt underneath the bench. When he didn't find anything, he became alarmed--although he had no idea what the items in the locker were, or what he would do with them, he felt that leaving without them would be a horrible, horrible mistake.

Then, the lights flickered. Panicking, Steven drew his gun, holding it close to his chest.

Again, they flickered. And again. Then, at the other end of the room, one of them blew out. Then another.

And another.

They seemed to be breaking in sequence, towards him. The darkness which rushed in to take the place of the light was faint at first, but with each light that shattered, the darkness seemed to become more oppressive, to take more shape, to become more..._there._ Like it was a real, physical entity, approaching him.

He turned and felt beneath the bench one last time, and--Praise God!--his hand brushed across a piece of paper. It had been stuck to the bottom of the bench by a powerful adhesive. He tried to pull it off and tore it instead. Looking at the paper, his heart racing, Steven read the numbers _-1-1._

"_Shit!_" he said, glancing back down the center row. Another light shattered as he turned. And worse, just at the end of the hall, he could see the darkness actually seeming to take a shape. The sight sent a lightning bolt of panicked fear through his heart. Whatever "they" were, they had found him.

Realizing he was in serious trouble, Steven utilized his last opportunity--he rolled onto his back and slid under the bench on the floor, using the light coming from the flourescent fixture directly over his head to read the first numbers off of the piece of the sheet which had remained stuck to the bottom of the bench-_-4-2._

_4-2-1-1._ That would be the combination, then. He rolled out from under the bench, heard another crash, and looked up to see that only two light fixtures remained. The shape that was drifting down the aisle towards him was now almost completely visible--obscured by the shadows it remained, but Steven could see the edges of some large, extremely hairy mass. He also thought he saw two very large eyes staring at him, but he would not allow himself to become hypnotized by the sheer oddity of what he thought he was seeing. He turned and entered the numbers into the locker.

_One revolution, 4, turn once around to 2, turn back around once to 1, then turn straight to 1...but wait, how do I...yeah, that's it!_

It didn't click.

"What?" Steven asked, in the same manner a little boy might speak to a video game when he feels he's been cheated. "But I did it right!" He tried it again, more slowly this time, and he felt the tiny vibration as the lock _clicked _beneath his hand. Just as he opened the locker, he heard another crash, this one from right behind him. He could bear it no longer; he turned to face the thing in the shadows, pointing his gun straight ahead. However, what he saw caused him to hesitate, losing precious seconds.

It was so ridiculous looking that it might have belonged in a child's cartoon, if not for the fact that it had been grossly corrupted by whatever powers lurked in this place. The closest thing he could relate it to was a mutated version of one of the monsters from a book he'd had as a child, _Where the Wild Things Are_. It was nothing buta head, really--a head with two large, round feet tacked onto the bottom. Two obscenely huge eyes, dirty bloodshot ovals (it had no visible eyelids), covered at least the top half of this head. A nose, shaped like a teardrop and seizing violently, hung from between them. Its mouth was the most peculiar feature, however--it was merely a circle, lined with what looked like the kind of fake vampire teeth that you could buy at any halloween shop around October of each year. The teeth would probably have looked more like _real _vampire teeth, had Steven ever actually seen a "real" vampire to which he could compare them. From the sides of the thing's "head," filthy tangles of greasy black hair extended in all directions, seeming to blow in the wind. It was not until Steven realized that there _was _no wind in the room that he also realized, the hair seemed to be _moving._

Just as the thing came within about five feet of where Steven half-sat and half-stood, pointing his gun, its tiny circular mouth opened up and revealed its true size; the creature's face constricted, the eyes pulling back, the nose shrinking down, and the flesh over its mouth stretching grotesquely. Simply put, the mouth was _huge, _easily large enough to fit Steven inside as if he were no larger than half of a peanut butter sandwich. If that wasn't enough, _another _mouth lay just inside the first, this one with teeth on the outside instead of on the inside. Steven found he could easily imagine this creature making the strange marks he'd seen on the door upstairs.

It descended upon him.

"No!" Steven asked, not as a declaration but as a plea. He fired the gun's last seven shots, one right after the other, without hesitation.

The first three shots sailed into the creature's mouth, piercing its throat(?) and coming out the other side. He heard the _pang_sof metal-on-metal as they bounced off of a locker at the other end of the room. After that the mouth closed, and the next one hit just between the thing's mouth and eyes, apparently causing no damage. The next two bullets punched gaping holes in its left eye, and the last one hit right _between_ the eyes.

"Jesus," Steven said, falling onto his ass and scooting away from the monster until his back pressed against the locker. The gun clattered uselessly to the floor next to him; he had no doubt that its purpose had been served, for better or for worse.

The monster fell to the ground, ceasing its levitation act, and stumbled towards Steven, trying to open its mouth again. Steven threw his hands up over his face, waiting to be devoured, but was unable to take his eyes off of his attacker. For this reason, he was able to spot the exact moment at which it then stumbled _away _from him, and he was able to quickly rise to his feet and move out of the way. It continued to totter every which way, slamming into lockers, knocking a couple of the ones in the middle aisle over, denting others beyond repair. Steven watched with horrified fascination as the thing dropped to the side, knocking over two more lockers, and fell silent. A cloud of dust, kicked up during the thing's rampage, floated down towards the ground around the abberation.

Steven could only stare, open-mouthed.

_Hurry up! _a voice echoed in his head. He remembered the caller's warning, and turned to the unlocked storage unit, flinging the door open. At first he didn't see anything--the only light in the room came from the single dim flourescent directly overhead--but when he realized there was a top shelf, he reached up and immediately felt something solid and rough touch his fingers. Standing on his tiptoes so that he could reach inside, he used both hands to shovel out the object--a small book with a tinted hand-made cover (the color was impossible to tell in this light, but it looked like it might be purple or blue). He didn't even have time to read the title before the urge to hurry kicked in and he shoved it into the inside pocket of his jacket. The book was almost the same size as the pocket bible he normally kept in his pocket when he was performing his Sunday services or just hanging out at the Rectory, so it fit nicely in the pocket.

Reaching back up into the locker, he procured a jar and a cup. Actually, it was techically a glass, not a cup, and finely decorated, at that. It looked like it was made of cobalt. The jar seemed to be empty. Steven, unable to find a place to put the two objects, turned and fled towards the office that connected to the lobby, on the other side of the room.

As soon as he entered the office and shut the door, he flicked the lock, just in case there were really more of those things coming after him. It wouldn't take them long to get through the door, as the one up there had so kindly demonstrated, but the lock would buy him a little bit of time. If that caller had been correct, time was something he would never have enough of as long as he was in this town.

Steven leaned towards the door that opened onto the lobby, but halted when his eyes fell upon the blackboard.

_OH I'M AN OUTSIDER OUTSIDE OF EVERYTHING_

_OH I'M AN OUTSIDER OUTSIDE OF EVERYTHING_

_OH I'M AN OUTSIDER OUTSIDE OF EVERYTHING_

_EVERYTHING YOU KNOW_

_EVERYTHING YOU KNOW_

_IT DISTURBS ME SO_

was written in chalk.

Steven read the words and felt another chill run down his spine. He was having no shortage of those, today. What could that mean--Outsider, outside of everything? Was this supposed to be another clue? A message? A threat? From a friend, or an enemy?

_No time to think, _Steven reprimanded himself. _Just go._

He bolted through the door.

As soon as he entered the lobby, the jar and glass in hand, he saw two large splotches of light against the counter to the left. Steven turned right, towards the source, and didn't even have a second to react; he could only stand there, watching, his body canted slightly to the left and his face staring straight ahead, with that deer-in-the-headlights look--that was pretty much what he was, too, a deer in the headlights.

The blood-splattered Delta '88 crashed through the front door, smashing into Steven at chest height before he could even fully comprehend that he'd been caught by surprise. He flew backward like a ragdoll thrown by a child during a tantrum, breaking through the counter from sheer momentum, the glass and jar flying from his hands and landing somewhere out of sight with a series of _clang_s Blood splattered onto the windshield of the car--contributing to its owner's sick collection--as well as all over the counter and the ceiling above the point of impact. The bones in the entire right half of his body (except for his ribcage, which was completely destroyed) were shattered and his jaw was knocked hard to the left, cracked in several places. He was gone before he even knew what had hit him.

The car's headlights flickered, as if in laughter, and its horn blared a sequence of hateful notes, as if to say, _I'd spit on you if only I had a mouth_. And with that, the car pulled out of the police station lobby, turned left onto the main road, and started back towards the drawbridge, its mission accomplished.

Steven lay in the floor of the police station, his heart waning with each beat, blood running from his mouth and several other parts of his body, convulsing, the last of his life-blood seeping from his multiple wounds. After two minutes had passed and the car's engine had faded out of earshot, Steven ceased, lying motionless, his eyes staring blankly up at his own blood on the ceiling.

END OF CHAPTER 23


	24. Out of Many, One

**Chapter 24**

**Out of Many, One**

_"I'm a million different people_

_From one day to the next_

_I can change..."_

"Bitter Sweet Symphony," _The Verve_

_(Urban Hymns)_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What's on your mind?" Walter finally said, after what had seemed like hours of silence. They'd been sitting here in the lobby for only two minutes, and already they were both itching to get up and move.

"What do you mean?" Henry asked, sounding dazed. He didn't even look at Walter.

"Just that look you've got," Walter said. "It's the look of a guy who has more trouble behind than ahead. Come on, spill it."

Henry looked at Walter with what might have been reproach...but then he sighed and folded his arms, leaning against the wall. "You remember that story I told you and those cops, back at the PD?"

"The one about the other me?" Walter snorted. "Henry, I knew about that guy long before you did. How could I ever forget him?"

"Well, what I have to say pertains to that other world he created," Henry said, ignoring Walter's "witticisms." "You remember all the things I said about the ghosts, right?"

"The souls of the victims," Walter said with an unnerving lack of solemnity. "Yeah, I remember. What about 'em?"

"Well, I was just thinking," Henry continued, still not meeting Walter's eyes. "Joseph--you know, the guy who lived--"

"Yeah, I know who he was," Walter interrupted. "Skip that part."

Henry blinked, as if he were a second or two behind. "Right. Joseph, he wrote about how the souls of Walter's victims were trapped in there, undying, for all of eternity. Those were his exact words." There, he stopped.

"Yeah?" Walter said. "What's your point?"

Henry looked up at Walter--finally--but then just shook his head and looked away. "It's just that...well, I met the last four personally. I talked to them. Right? That's what makes this whole thing so much more unbearable. I _knew _those people. Maybe not like I might know a family member, but I knew them. I'd seen them, interacted with them...they were as real as anything else I've ever seen. I hadn't thought about them for awhile--not since I escaped that place with Eileen--but all of this has gotten me thinking about those victims. I wonder..." He met Walter's eyes with his own cold, daring ones once again--that look which suggested an almost superhuman brilliance, shining just beneath a waxy primer of modesty. "I wonder what happened to them when Walter died? Did they escape, come back to this reality? Or are they stuck somewhere in limbo, trapped in whatever crazy place that world went to when it broke down? Or did they...did they just cease to exist?"

"I wouldn't bother yourself with it," Walter said. "You could lose so much sleep wondering about things like this at night. Just let it go. Don't try to figure it out--do I have to give you the "the universe doesn't make any sense" speech again?"

"But that's just it," Henry said. "If it turns out to be true--if it turns out that those people's eternal souls are trapped somewhere, between the fabric of reality and unreality, undying...I just don't know...it's messed up."

"What are you saying?" Walter asked, leaning forward. "Don't get all crazy on me, now. There's only room here for one basket case, and that's me."

"Well?" Henry said, throwing his hands down. It was the first time Walter had seen Henry come even close to being exhasperated. "Before all this happened, I was just a normal nobody, a regular guy. I didn't wonder about life, or the universe, or God, or any of this stuff. Maybe what Walter brought to life wasn't God--maybe it really was the Devil--but--"

"There are no such things as Gods or Devils," Walter insisted. "I've already told you. Don't try to chalk up one psycho's motives to a higher power. The universe is like one big cosmic accident--we're here, and that's it. Deal with it."

"It's really that easy for you?" Henry asked.

"What?" Walter said, looking Henry straight in the eye. That was probably the first intimate question Henry had asked him since they'd met.

"It's really easy for you to say that there's nothing more to this life than what we're seeing?" Henry pressed on.

"What do you care?" Walter spat, suddenly vehement. "What, now you're going to try to redefine my beliefs? Henry, buddy, you can try, but I'll let you know right now that you won't get far."  
"I don't want to change your beliefs," Henry said. "I just want to understand them."

"Well, how's this?" Walter asked. "Do _you_ believe in God?"

Henry didn't say anything for a long time--at least a minute. When Walter thought he wasn't going to get an answer, he opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by Henry. "I don't know."

"What?" Walter said. "What do you mean, 'you don't know?'"

"I mean, I don't know," Henry repeated. "I've never really thought about it. I can't say I believe in _God_, per se, because I've never really had a 'divine experience.' I mean, my life hasn't been terrible or wonderful, it's just...well, it's my life. I'm here, I live, I work, I eat, I sleep. But I've never really questioned why I do these things.""Sounds like you're more sympathetic to my beliefs than you are opposed to them," Walter said. "Eh?"

"I can't say I'm anywhere near as close to the end of my rope as you seem to be," Henry said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Walter said, ready to retort on a moment's notice.

"All I meant was," Henry said, "you seem like you've been around the block a few times more than I have. It's not that I'm fed-up with my life--I don't hate anybody, but I can't say I..." he trailed off.

"You what?" Walter said, immediately drumming up the parallel to what his companion had just said. "You can't say you love anyone?"

Henry thought for a moment, an image of Eileen conjured in his mind. He had already been with her in the most intimate way a man could be with a woman. If that didn't mean love...then what did? A depressing thought, really.

"Henry?" Walter whistled irritably. "You there, pal? Earth to Henry, do you copy?"

"Just...never mind," Henry said. "I think too much, that's all. Let's get out of here."

"Ooh," Walter said, "hit a nerve?"

Henry didn't respond. Instead, he started down the dark hall at the other end of the room, just past the shallow pool of light cast by the dim bulb overhead.

The part that sucked was, it was impossible for Walter to read Henry--he couldn't tell if the guy was mellow, pissed, thoughtful, giddy, or all of the above. Ever since they'd met, he'd had the vibe that Henry was thoroughly disinterested in anything that had come out of his--Walter's--mouth. Well, except maybe for the conversation back in the woods, about the powers that be. But just now, it seemed as if he'd been on the verge of revealing some vital truth about himself, some deep part of himself that he kept from most of the outside world. Walter had a feeling that, had Henry shared that little nugget, it would have officially established some kind of shaky bond between them, as if they were brothers. He also had a feeling that, by not sharing it, Henry was pushing him away, which sort of suggested that Henry didn't entirely trust him. And that almost hurt.

_Listen to me,_ he thought, frowning,_ standing here like a fucking twelve-year-old fag with a crush on his best friend. I didn't care about that kind of crap thirty years ago, and I don't care about it now. In fact, I..._

Thirty years ago...

"Wait," Walter said, clutching his forehead. "I think...wait."

Henry stopped, turning to face him. "What is it?"

_Thirty years ago...something happened...but no, that doesn't feel right. Thirty years ago..._

"Damn it!" Walter shouted, smacking his fist against the wall. _What am I missing? _he wondered. _What the hell happened here?_

"Walter?" Henry leaned closer but remained where he was, apparently afraid to stand too close. "Are you okay?"  
Walter stood there in silence for a moment before responding. "Yeah...yeah, I'm fine. I guess this town's just getting to me, that's all."

Henry regarded Walter coldly--as if he thought he might be hiding something--but then shrugged and opened the door to the courtyard. Walter followed him out into the night.

The courtyard was blanketed with a dense fog--as most of the town seemed to be on this night--but that wouldn't have been a problem, save for the fact that it was also quite dark. Visibility was limited to just a few inches, at best, until Henry clicked on the device that Walter had come to refer to in his mind as the Holy Flashlight. The light's beam effortlessly tore through the black air, forming a guiding beacon for the two to follow. Henry proceeded forward into the yard, pausing only to motion back to Walter, who still stood in the lobby doorway--_Come on!_

Walter followed...but in his mind, he wasn't really there. Not anymore. He was in another place, a library beneath his mind, the place where all of his deepest memories were rooted. He had the feeling that the name _Claudia _was very, very important, somehow. Every time he mentioned her--hell, every time he even _thought _of her--he had an unpleasant sensation, the mental equivalent of trying to pry open a clam shell only to have the shell snap closed on his hand and scrape his fingers. It was a very hard feeling to understand--the first time he'd had it, back at his home in Pleasant River, he hadn't given it a second thought. But then, later, after he'd been arrested, Claudia had come up again, and that time the feeling had been more pronounced. Then, this time...this time, it had been unmistakable. And that worried him deeply.

"Hey, what's this?" Henry called from up ahead. "There's something up here!"

Walter hurried to reach his companion's side. Once there, he sighed. "That's just the pool."

"Oh," Henry said. "Well, it looked like a hole or something from back there."

"Though it seems odd that they'd keep it drained in the middle of the spring," Walter said. "During winter, maybe, but Spring Break? Come on, everybody in the building would be out here."

"The weather's been really strange lately," Henry said. "It was snowing in Ashfield."

Walter nodded. "Yeah, that's probably got something to do with it." He turned and regarded the wide-open courtyard, looking up into the fog, trying to see the surrounding complex. He couldn't. "That, and the fact that this is one royally fucked-up town."

Henry stood at the edge of the pool, staring down. It was no jaccuzzi--at least four feet deep, maybe more, and about fifteen-by-twenty horizontally. Without any water in there, he thought it would be pretty easy to break something, were he to fall in.

Meanwhile, Walter had wandered a ways off, farther into the courtyard. Past the pool was a little patio area, complete with several white wooden tables, two chairs each (also white), and cheap little umbrellas covering each station. Walter looked on, barely seeing anything, his mind racing.

_I remember this place, _he thought. _I remember coming here. I didn't...I don't think I actually _lived _here, though. I know, because I lived in the Wish House. I shared a room with Bob._

He pulled a chair away from the closest table and sat down, scuffing his shoes on the tile floor--even the patio area had tiles? This place must have been revamped recently, because Walter didn't remember any tiles.

_What I don't get,_ Walter ruminated, _is how I can remember any of this. I remember there _being _a Ricky...but I can't remember anything about him. What kind of person was he?_ He stared up into the night sky, as if to plead with the heavens for an answer once more. _And how could I have ever visited him? I grew up in the Wish House, and they never let anyone leave, not without a supervisor. And even then, rarely._

Walter glanced back towards Henry, who was still staring into the pool, as if he'd found something that bared contemplation. Seeing that all was well, he returned to his thoughts.

_And Claudia, _he continued. _What about her? When Detective Dan asked me about her, I had that weird feeling. And just now...what was that, just now? I remember seeing Claudia when I was very little, in Wish House, about thirty years ago. I was no more than five or six._

"No," he said out loud. "That's not right. Because...what about high school? I remember that, too. Pleasant River high, a ten-year hiatus full of dead-end jobs, and then Pleasant River Academy. That's where I go now."

_But that's not right, _his mind whispered. _You never went to high school._

"Yes, I did!" Walter said. "I remember shooting for the rifle team. That's how I learned about guns. There was that incident--the kid that lost it at a competition and started shooting people. I remember that. I was there!"

_But you were at the Wish House until you were 18, _his mind argued. _From there, you moved to Pleasant River, and that's where you went to college._

"But that's not true!" Walter said, gently but firmly smacking his fist against the table. "I'm in college _now._ I didn't want to go to college at first, but then I started reading, and decided I wanted to get a degree in English. Maybe teach it, someday. Why would I be going to college now, if I had gone back when I was 18?"

_19, _the voice continued. _You were 19, not 18._

"But..." Before he could finish the thought, a picture came up in his mind--the reddish-orange piece of paper. He wondered what it would say if he took it out right now.

_Now or never,_ he thought, and reached into his pocket. Took out the piece of paper (he _hadn't _lost it, after all). It read:

_GO TO HIM. GIVE HIM THE NUMBER. THE NUMBER IS NINETEEN._

_19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19_

_19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19_

_19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19_

_19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19 19_

"This doesn't have anything to do with that," Walter said. "Does it?"

_Maybe. At first, I thought it _had _to mean 'Henry'. But maybe 'him' isn't Henry at all. Maybe I never really knew what I was doing, not even from the start. Maybe 'him' is..._

"Wait," Walter said. "Nineteen...that's how old I was when..."

_No, _his mind insisted. _You weren't nineteen. You were _never _nineteen. That's why you're--_

"But that can't be," he said. "Everyone was nineteen, at some point. It's the only way to get to twenty."

_You were never twenty, either. Or twenty-one, or twenty-two._

"No," Walter said. "That's just stupid."

_Is it? Think about it; you remember Claudia from thirty years ago, yet Claudia wasn't even _born _thirty years ago. You remember the incident where she tried to summon God, back around the time where Stone was using little Wally to try to complete the Sacraments, and _that _was thirty years ago, too. The _same _time you _think _you remember seeing little Claudia. But she would've been around twenty-eight at that time._

Walter was having that clam-shell sensation again...except, this time, it seemed like he was getting some headway.

"What does that mean, then? That my memories are wrong? That I'm delusional? I just don't believe that. What about the crowds gathered outside of my house?"

_You just don't get it. You met Claudia when you were five or six. She was eight or ten. You were only five or six when she tried to bring the God to earth, and she was almost _thirty_. Besides, you left the church when you were eighteen, never to return. You moved to Pleasant River, outside of the Order's influence. How could you know about what Claudia did after that? The newspapers wouldn't have addressed her acts of trying to ressurrect God. _

"Somehow, Claudia aged really quickly," Walter said. "That's the only explanation."

_No, it's not. There's another explanation._

"But that's just crazy," Walter said. "I'm...I'm me, I've always been. I remember being here. I remember being nineteen. I remember being twenty, and twenty-one!"

_But you weren't. Simple as that. You never were. It's all a lie._

"My life is _not _a lie!" Walter shouted, standing up and slamming his fists on the table. "I was _there, _dammit! I know better!"

_Look around. You only remember what's convenient for you. You only remember what _He _wants you to remember. That's why._

"No..." but Walter could not think of any proper rebuttal. There just _had _to be some other case--this was insane! He knew himself. He knew his own experience.

_No, you know _His _experience, _his inner mind insisted, seeming to grow more powerful with each statement. It was no longer something that could be denied with a simple shake of the head.

"I...don't believe that," Walter lied. "I won't!"

_But you will. And the time has come._

Horrified realization dawned in Walter's mind, and on his face.

"Oh, God, no," he said, the paper falling from his hands, its purpose served at long last. "No, not here. Not now!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry stared down into the empty pool, but he wasn't seeing the tiled base. Instead, he was seeing some strange limbo, lost between this reality and the next one, where nineteen souls may still be drifting to this very hour, undying, tormented by their inability to truly die. The thought deeply disturbed him, and he wished like hell that there was something he could do to be sure, to convince himself beyond any shred of a doubt, that he had freed their souls when he'd killed the other Walter. That alone would be enough to let him rest easy from now on.

He wondered what had become of Eileen. He hadn't been able to visit her at the hospital because of his arrest and the subsequent "escape" to Silent Hill, and it hadn't crossed his mind until this very moment that she might not have even survived. Douglas, the detective, might have shot her to death right there in South Ashfield Heights, and she might have been pronounced dead-on-arrival at St. Jerome's. He realized that he was more worried than he had ever been about anything in his life; a strange feeling. He wasn't used to feeling urgent about things, especially about other people. Sure, he'd always done his part to try to make the people around him comfortable, but he'd never felt such a strong desire to do so. It was almost as if...maybe, just maybe, he really did love--

"_Henry!_" Walter's panicked voice echoed from across the courtyard. "_Henry, go! RUN!_"

Henry heard the command, but it did not register right away. He pointed the flashlight towards the sound and saw Walter, running away from an overturned table and chair, shouting at the top of his lungs. _"He's here, the Other Walter! He's going to kill you! Go!"_

Henry felt his heart leap into his throat; his brow furrowed. That _couldn't _be true, could it? The Other Walter? But he was _dead!_

Walter had barely reached the other side of the pool when Henry received a terrible headache; it tore through his head like a serrated drill, dropping him to his knees with a powerful cry of outraged pain. Both of his ears plugged up for a second, then popped suddenly and painfully, as if some high-pressure cloud had just passed over him. He felt a cold wind brush past his face.

"Henry!" Walter cried out, pushing himself to top speed. He slid towards Henry while dropping into a kneeling position, took him around the shoulders, and raised him to his feet. "Henry, you've got to get out of here, _now._ Take the front door. Run as fast as you can."

"What?" Henry said, flustered. "What are you talking about? Where would I go? What's going on?"

"No time," Walter said. "Just go anywhere. Anywhere is safer than here. Now _go!_" Walter said, trying to shove Henry in the general direction of the main lobby door.

"What about you?" Henry asked, backing away. "You--"

He never finished the sentence.

The fog had begun to concentrate around the pool in the center of the courtyard, spiraling down into it like water down a storm drain. Red lightning sparked up from what seemed like nowhere at all, crackling around the makeshift twister, signifying the arrival of a dangerous and terrible thing.

"Henry, get lost, now," Walter said, and pushed him hard. "It's your last chance."

But Henry wouldn't move.

"_Dammit,_ Henry!" Walter started towards him. A sound--like a thousand voices overlaid into one--coming from behind stopped him in his tracks: "_Hennnnnn...yyyyy..."_

Walter turned quickly, his brow furrowed in expectation.

The fog had stopped swirling. The lightning had stopped crackling. All was silent.

"What was that?" Henry asked, looking to Walter.

"It's _him,_" Walter said.

As if on cue, a brown-gloved hand shot up over the edge of the pool, grasping the edge of the drop. Soon, another hand joined the first, and together they pulled a head up over the edge...then a body...and then, the figure's knees came to rest on the edge of the pool. It stood up and regarded them with its ruined face, grinning with all the insanity of a thousand sociopaths.

"_Hennn...r.r...y..._" The Other Walter said, and pulled back the tail of his long, purple coat. He began to draw a chrome-plated pistol from a holster on his waist, raising it with immeasurable patience.

Walter was startled when he heard the crack of the gun; turning, he realized that it had been Henry who had fired the shot. It sailed home, punching a hole in the Other Walter's gun-toting arm. But said arm did not drop the gun.

"Henry, run," Walter repeated, pleading. "Please, go."

"I'm not leaving you," Henry said.

"Dammit," Walter hissed, "this isn't an action movie. Don't try to be noble. If you die, then it's over. So get lost. Get away from here."

Henry hesitated.

"Trust me, okay?" Walter said, flashing him a thumbs-up. "I know this guy. He's me. I can handle it. You worry about yourself."

Henry's face twisted, as though he were about to offer a contesting remark, but then he nodded and started to back away. Walter wasn't satisfied until he heard the lobby door close behind him. Once he did, he turned to the Other Walter, sweat pouring off of his face...but not in fear. Not entirely.

"So, we meet in person, finally. You're not looking so hot, if I do say so myself."

"_Heennnnn...r..r...r..y..."_

"Yeah, I know," Walter said. "You're after Henry. I should've caught on to your little game just a little bit earlier; credit goes to you for keeping me stumped for so long. But now, the game's over."

"_Heeennnnnry..."_

"Shut up," Walter said, and flipped him a middle finger. "It's your turn to listen. I think I've finally started to get some of my memory back. That was a fine trick you pulled, but I think I've got it figured out."

The Other Walter stared, grinning idiotically, not a grain of sanity left on his face.

"At first, I didn't even realize anything was going on," Walter said, starting to pace oh-so-slowly towards the Other Walter. "But once ol' Detective Dan started playing games with my head--once we started touching down on my past with the Order--that's when I realized something was up. Put that on top of my little visits from you, and we have an interesting situation."

Walter smiled sarcastically, fluttering his eyes.

"See, I was going about it all the wrong way. I remembered all of these weird things, things I couldn't explain." He began to gesture wildly with his hands, expressing his frustration with the thought. "I tried to make sense of them. But it didn't work. I didn't realize that until just now." He pointed to the patio furniture he'd knocked over in his attempt to warn Henry. "Right there, was where I was sitting when it hit me: I _wasn't _really remembering those things. _You _were _sending _them to me. Am I right? Of course I am, you were _there,_ you know."

The Other Walter took a step forward.

_Henry, _Walter thought, _you'd better be making every second of this count._

"I only remember things that you think are _convenient_ for me to remember. Things that you gave me, to help me get here. Little 'pushes' in the right direction. Clues, if you will. But you're so _smart, _you decided to disguise these hints, and make me feel all big and smart and special, like I figgered 'em out all by myself! Isn't that right?"

Another step.

"Like Ricky, for example. There _was _no Ricky. Thinking back on it, I never even lived in this town. I lived in the woods, in the Wish House. Never even _came _to this town."

And another.

"Oh, wait. Maybe I should say, _you _lived there."

Reaching.

"Yes. Because I'm not who I thought I was, in a sense. I mean, yes, I'm Walter Sullivan--"

Reaching for his pistol.

"--but really, am I supposed to believe that it's mere coincidence that we share the same fingerprints? The same DNA? The same name?"

Drawing the gun.

"Well, am I?"

Raising the gun.

"What kind of a fool do you take me for, really? I know your secret."

_At least, I hope I do._

_Click._

"We're one and the same, aren't we, you and I? In some strange way, we are--I don't know how, or why, but it's true. So I know, you can't kill me. You don't _want _to kill me. You could have, in the void, but you didn't. What I want to know is, why? Why didn't you kill me? Why do you need me alive?"

Pulling down on the trigger, now.

"Go ahead," Walter said. "It won't make a difference. Either way, you need me, you child-killing son of a--"

_BLAM!_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry had reached the edge of Katz Street, turning onto Monson, when he heard the shot. It was loud and clear, cutting through the night like a knife. He froze.

"Walter," he said, his voice barely able to rise above a whisper. He felt his heart speed up a million times over, and he hoped dearly that Walter was okay.

_In any case, where do I go, now? _Henry thought to himself. _Walter never said where to go, just to go. I have no idea where I could go to get away from that thing._ For he no longer thought of the Other Walter as a person; anymore, he was just a thing, a monster, a demon to be escaped from. Henry still had his gun--and nine bullets--but he doubted it would do much good, if and when he came to face the Other Walter.

"Don't die on me," Henry said, turning right onto Monson Street and running forward into the darkness that lay ahead. "Just...don't."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bullet had pierced Walter's heart; he could feel the unbearable, searing pain in his chest, lighting up the entire top half of his body like the human torch. He knew he was going to die--there was that much. At least he could no longer be burdened by hope. There was only this one task remaining, this one thing to be done. Then he could rest in peace.

"Bitch," Walter said, spitting a wad of blood onto the pavement beside him. He was lying on his side, clutching his wounded chest with one hand. "You sadistic bastard. You know how many people had to suffer for you to see your precious 'Mother?'."

The Other Walter now stood right in front of him, looking down on him with that insane grin. The skin on his face seemed to be blistering off; he was, indeed, in a tired state. He began to lean down.

"No," Walter said, backing up, trying to rise to his feet. "No God-damned way."

The Other Walter continued to close in on him.

"Back off," Walter said. He couldn't breathe; black spots were swimming on the edge of his vision.

The Other Walter paused for a moment. He jerked his head up into the sky, and let out a howl of triumphant rage (the very idea of 'triumphant rage' seemed like an oxy-moron to Walter, but that was the phrase that occurred to him when he heard the sound). It wasn't just a noise, though--in his head, Walter could hear the meaning of the message, the thought behind it

(_I WILL_ _KILL HIM)_

and, immediately afterward, he saw the thing ascending from the bottom of the pool. Saw the worm-like shape emerge, crawling up out of its interdimensional hidey-hole.

Saw the familiar little triangle-shaped hat on top of the head, with the familiar drawing of an eye.

At first, Walter was sure that Metalhead had come back for _him_, that the Other Walter had ordered it to kill _him. _Though that would have been bad, it would certainly have been better than what actually happened; the Metalhead worm's head swelled up, cracked, popped open, bursting in all directions like a flea who has drunk too much, spraying a strange and color mixture of substances onto the ground all over the courtyard. Sitting in the ruins of the worm's head, as if it had been waiting there all along, was a strange white shape. Walter couldn't tell until it began to stand up that it was a humanoid creature, and that it had been sitting in the fetal position like a baby (this very idea caused him to shiver with disgust).

It rose to its feet; It was a buff, solid-white figure, about seven feet tall and four wide. It looked like one of those 50's sci-fi movie robots, _sans _the minute details. It was shaped like a human, but with arms and legs segmented at all of the major joints (kneecaps, ankles, elbows, shoulders). Its head was shaped like a slanted triangle, canted slightly to the back, like a futuristic KKK hood, except the eye-holes on the front had been replaced with that familiar red eye symbol. But the most fearsome aspect of the thing was its hands--fisted anvil-like things, each at least a foot or so wide. It wouldn't be hard for the thing to do its job with hands like those.

This new creature made no sound upon its arrival; it simply began moving at a slow but steady pace towards the lobby door, the way Henry had taken. Just before it reached the door, however, its speed nearly tripled, and it entered a speedy jog.

"No!" Walter said, reaching out, as if his efforts would cause the thing to collapse right then and there. "No, you can't! Cheap shit!" He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned back around.

The Other Walter was kneeling before him, that shit-eating grin no longer covering his face. He looked all business. "It is time for you to come back to me," it said in a voice that was impossibly dry; it sounded like that of a corpse who has been left under the mid-afternoon desert sun for a couple of weeks.

"Fuck you," Walter said, and he had time for one more thought--the thought that, were his heart still in one piece, he would probably have just died of a heart-attack--before blood loss finally claimed him. He keeled over and lost consciousness, hitting the ground with a _thud._

The Other Walter snorted triumphant laughter. He leaned over and placed his left hand on Walter's limp left hand, and his right on Walter's right, just as limp. Then, there was a twirling of fog and a flash of bright, red light, and...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry had barely reached the north end of Monson street before running out of breath. He figured that the Other Walter would be coming after him any time now--that was the only thing of which he was completely sure, anymore--and so he knew he should be stepping up his pace, but he simply couldn't. His legs and chest were too tired. He would have to take a brief rest before he could continue.

His first impulse was to hit the first road out of town, hitch a ride back to Pleasant River, and get some help--the police, or even the army--but the first two problems with that were (A) Nobody would believe him, not in a billion years, and (B) he wasn't going leave Walter in this town by himself. No; he had to find a place that Walter would logically think to go next and get there, pronto. Then he could wait and see if Walter showed up.

_But what if he doesn't? _Henry's skeptical half asked. _What if that gunshot was--_

"No," Henry said. "Walter said he knew how to handle it, and I believe him."

But he'd also said something else, something that was already starting to bother Henry: _I know this guy. He's me. I can handle it. You worry about yourself._

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Sure, they had the same name and all that...but before, Walter had vehemently denied any connection with the madman. That comment had been phrased almost as if he'd known what the Other Walter was thinking. And _that...that _was just weird.

Standing at the corner of Monson and Nathan, chest thudding so fast and hard he thought he might just drop dead of a heart attack, Henry wondered if this hadn't been the Other Walter's plan all along; if the 21 Sacraments really had only been the beginning...if allowing Joseph to help him had actually been part of the plan...hell, maybe this whole sequence was _part of _the 21 Sacraments? Maybe Henry was _supposed _to have survived the original spree, only to come here and be murdered? If that were the case, though...

_Wait..._

"No," Henry thought. "No, there's no way he can..._Eileen!_"

END OF CHAPTER 24


	25. The Long Run

**Chapter 25**

**The Long Run**

_"Have I got a long way to run_

_Have I got a long way to run..."_

"Run," _Collective Soul_

_(Dosage)_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

He ran, and he ran, and he ran. He ran until he could run no more. The mere thought of Walter reaching Eileen before he did had frozen his blood; thankfully, his feet had not suffered the same fate.

_Eileen,_ he thought, the events of the last week passing before his eyes as if on the wind. _I've got to hurry!_

He had not been paying attention to the direction in which he'd been running; it had been a blind, panic-induced movement, with thoughts of Eileen overlapping his vision, preventing him from seeing where exactly he was going. That's why he was surprised when he came to the tallest building he'd seen in town yet.

He had traversed several miles of hard pavement, crossed an open lawn, dashed through a white picked-fence and gone down a narrow but long dirt road before coming out almost directly in front of the behemoth structure. It was impossible to properly define the scenery which surrounded the building, for the dense fog and the pitch-black night obscured much of it from sight, but a few trees were visible in the distance to the left and right, and Henry thought he could hear the soft sound of water being caressed by the wind somewhere in the distance, so he figured that it must be very close to a lake or stream.

The building, recently painted a green so intense that it stood out even against the grass, was three floors high, maybe more--it was impossible to tell, exactly, although it was certainly as big as a barn. It almost _looked _like a barn, in that it was longer running away from Henry than it was to either side, and the sides of the roof seemed to curve together to make a soft point on top. Just beneath this point, dangling from two small chains attached to the underside of the roof, was an oblong wooden sign which read _Lakeview Hotel and Resort._

Hotel and Resort? Henry hadn't been to town for a nice little while, but he still found it odd that the place had converted into a combination hotel-resort since his last visit. With all of the nasty rumors surrounding the town (and with the new ones seeming to appear spontaneously each tourist season, some urban legends created by collaborations of the locals to scare the tourists, others much closer to the truth), he found it surprising that tourism had increased enough for _any _part of this town to do any reasonable amount of business. But then he remembered the news report--the one he'd heard the day he'd come back from the Other Walter's world--about the bodies of the other victims being found in the woods near here, and he remembered that Jasper Gein hadn't been the only person in the world who sought cheap thrills in the supernatural. Those reports had only happened a few days ago, but similar reports were probably being made all the time around here. Anymore, this town was nothing more than a live reality show, relying on its own gruesome history to attract people like a prostitute relies on her cheap makeup to attract clients.

Henry tried the front door--a large wooden double-door--and found that it was unlocked. Not that he had expected otherwise; he hadn't actually known _what _to expect. Doors in this place were crazy; sometimes they were locked when you needed them to be unlocked, sometimes it was the other way around.

In any case, the door lead him into a large--but mostly empty--lobby area; directly in front of him was a strange-looking device, probably a clock or something, and to his right, a small sitting area, tucked into the corner. A reception office existed about three-quarters of the way down the far left wall, and a huge staircase stood sentinel in the center of the room. The staircase was surely big enough to accomodate at least three grown men standing side-by-side, and with plenty of breathing room. The already huge floor was made to appear even more so by the ecstatic design on the carpet--complicated weaves of different shapes, predominantly diamonds and other such pointed figures.

At first he wasn't sure what the hell he was doing here; then, he remembered that he needed to at least _try _to get in touch with Eileen. With luck, she would still be back at the hospital in Ashfield. Otherwise, they may have already transferred her--if she'd gotten worse, either to another hospital or somewhere else...but if she'd gotten better, they might even have put her in jail, for shooting at both Henry and the detective, Douglas. He hadn't thought of that.

Henry was halfway across the room, heading towards the reception office, before he was aware he'd even taken a step. All real thought had ceased by this point; there was only action, commands from his brain being processed by his body, which performed said commands with a clumsy obedience. He reached the glass door to the office and placed his hand around the archaic metal handle--a curlique shape, perhaps a tail of some sort--and pulled.

It didn't open.

"Come on," Henry said, and this time he pushed. The door fell inward, crashing against the wall behind it. The sound echoed throughout the room, rattling the front door in its tender frame. Just inside the door, hanging from the opposite wall, was a progression of small boxes, probably mail slots for the different rooms. Henry counted fifty-four before he stopped, wondering why he'd bothered to stop and count them in the first place, and proceeded to the right. He discovered a counter, blocked from the main lobby by a shutter which read _Lakeview Hotel and Resort. _On the half of the counter that was still visible, he saw a black ring-dial telephone, but he would not allow himself to be relieved yet. He reached down and picked up the handset, pressed it to his ear, expecting to hear nothing but hoping for a dial tone...and felt his heart leap into his throat when, lo and behold, he heard a _dial tone._

"Yes," he hissed under his breath, spinning the area code for downtown Ashfield and then the number for St. Jerome's. It hadn't even occurred to him to question why the phone was working in spite of the insanity going down elsewhere in town.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

"Pick up," Henry urged. He realized that his throat was painfully dry, probably from that long run, and thought that he would have to remember to get a drink the next time such an opportunity presented itself.

There was a _click _from the other end of the line. "Hello? St. Jerome's Medical Hospital, Shannon speaking."

Henry stood there, unbelieving. He'd actually _gotten through._ He was almost suspicious.

"Hello?" Shannon said, seeking confirmation. She sounded like she was ready to hang up.

"No, wait," Henry said. "I'm Henry."

"Excuse me?"

"My name is Henry," he said. "Can you transfer me to the intensive care unit, please? It's urgent."

"Hold, please," Shannon said in that cold, businesslike tone that hospitals always seemed to reserve for the people who least needed to hear it.

_Click._

A calm, ambient melody began to chime in. It was a moment before Henry recognized it as _See You In The Next One,_ by The Verve. Weird.

Then: _Click._

"Hello, St. Jerome's Hospital, ICU, Rachael speaking. How may I help you?"

"I need to know if you have a patient named Eileen Galvin? It's very urgent. I must speak with her as soon as possible."

"Oh!" Rachael said, and there was the sound of movement from the other end of the line. She was probably shuffling through some paperwork or something. After what felt like an eternity, she finally came back to the phone. "I'm sorry, she checked herself out earlier this evening. Is this about her purse? Because I can explain. I wasn't trying to--"

"Checked _herself_ out?" Henry said. "How is that possible? She's been shot! Three times!"

"I-I'm sorry," she said, obviously nervous. "She just got up and walked out. I tried to stop her, but she insisted she was well. She started talking about some, um, spiritual stuff, and I wasn't sure what to say, and--"

"Do you know where she went?"

"Um, no," Rachael said. She sounded close to tears.

"Damn it," Henry said, and hung up. Just as he dropped the handset onto the cradle, it occurred to him that he hadn't even given her a polite dismissal. _Oh, well, _he thought, and turned back to the door.

However, just as he placed his hand on the knob, he heard something unsettling: A loud, rythmic pounding. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere in the main lobby. Had it been there while he was on the phone? He hadn't noticed.

Henry leaned toward the glass door, trying to look through it. The glass was that cloudy kind one might see at a restaurant, with the name of the establishment--in this case, _Lakeview Hotel and Resort--_printed on either side in fancy lettering. He couldn't see a thing.

_THUMP._

There it was again, that knocking. It was a nerve-wracking sound. Then, a nerve-rattler to end all nerve-rattlers--a loud, resounding crash, followed immediately by the splintering of wood. That thick _crunch _was unmistakable.

_Damn,_ Henry thought. _Can it be...?_ He backed away from the glass door, unsure of what to expect. He thought about dashing around the corner as quietly as possible, to see if there was another way out behind the mailboxes, but before he'd so much as turned around, the shutter over the reception counter was crushed inward, splintering bits of metal in all directions. Thankfully, Henry was just out of the line of fire, so he avoided what would certainly have been a nasty rendesvouz with some shrapnel.

"_What the hell?"_ he shouted, backing away from the shape that was trying to crawl in through the shutter. For a split-second it was completely unfamiliar, but then his eyes came to rest on that familiar red eye, and right away he knew that Metalhead had come back for one last round. He turned, scrambling for the doorknob, and pushed himself out into the lobby. He glanced to the left--saw the bottom half of the creature dangling from the reception counter shutter in what would have been a comical manner under other circumstances, and past that, on the wall behind the staircase, another pair of double-doors. He opted to take the staircase up to the second floor instead--he had no idea how quickly Metalhead was capable of moving, and he had no real desire to find out. He was halfway up the staircase when he heard the (not surprisingly) machine-like announcement of Metalhead's pursuit--its joints made a noise that belonged in a 50's sci-fi movie, as opposed to the gradual creaking they had produced when last Henry had encountered it. It was almost as if it had evolved somehow, perhaps into a more detailed (and maybe more advantageous, Henry thought with dawning dismay) state.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he had to make a snap decision regarding whether to turn left or right. He knew he didn't have time to stand around--Metalhead was not extremely fast, but he was fast enough to be a serious problem. He thanked whatever powers that be that he hadn't (yet) injured himself in some way as to inhibit his movement capabilities, and then, without thinking about it, opted to turn left. He barged in through the wooden doors.

The next room was a hallway, short and narrow with several branches--_too many_ branches. If Henry made a wrong turn and found a dead end, _he _was dead. He had time to notice the alcove to his left--a lamp sitting on a table, across from an elevator he didn't have time to test--as well as another smaller alcove in the wall up ahead, to the right. Across from that alcove was a door. Henry dashed to the farther alcove, deciding with a single glance that it would not do--to the right, there was only a square area with three separate doors branching off in three different directions, one straight ahead and one to either side. He knew they would probably be dead-ends, empty rooms, so he turned and took the opposite door instead.

Inside he found a small janitor's closet, about twenty feet wide by fifteen feet across. Dead-end.

"_Damn it!_" he hissed, glancing around in a panicked haze. To his right, a janitor's cart with a couple of brooms. He didn't see them as cleaning tools but as mediocre weapons, too fragile to fend off the impending metal monstrosity. On the wall straight ahead, a cabinet filled with meaningless things--he didn't have to check it to know that nothing in it could save him. And it was too late to turn back.

The last thing in the room was an elevator, situated in the wall to the immediate left. Henry dropped his hand to the butt of the gun in his waistband--he'd readjusted it there after fleeing the scene of the Other Walter's emergence--thinking that, if nothing else, he still had that. He still didn't know if it would work on Metalhead, or, if it _did _work, if he would even have enough ammunition. It was a .45--like Walter had said at some point, _Not the best, but good_--so it might be strong enough...but Henry would much rather never have to know.

He stepped into the elevator, not sure if it was going to work but unable to think of anything else to try--he could hear Metalhead, thrashing blindly around in the hallway just outside the room--and as soon as he did, he regretted it.

_WOOONK! WOOONK! WOOONK!_

Henry covered his ears, cursing under his breath. Pleading with the machine to shut the _hell _up! But it would not cease its warbling cry. It seemed intent on ratting him out to that bastard, Metalhead. He mashed the _B _button on the panel to the right, just inside the elevator, but it would not respond. It only continued that damnable screeching.

"What do you _want?"_ Henry pleaded, pounding on the panel with his fisted hands. It was then that he noticed the particularly odd note, posted just below the floor buttons--_Weight Allowance: One Person._

_What the hell does that mean?_ he wondered. He leaned out of the elevator, bringing the room's only exit back into his line of sight, and felt a strange sensation in the waist of his pants. He looked down just in time to see--but not stop--the handgun as it slid out of his waistband, clattering to the floor just outside of the elevator. He reached down to grab it...and realized that the irritating siren had stopped. His heart ready to burst with a mixture of joy and confusion, he snatched the gun up, stuck it back into his waistband, and pulled himself back into the elevator...and the screeching began again.

_WOOONK! WOOONK! WO--_

Henry had stepped out of the elevator, and the siren had stopped. What was this thing's problem?

Before he had a chance to further explore the issue, the room's only entrance exploded inward, revealing Metalhead once again, in all its terrible glory.

"No," Henry said, pointing the gun at the monster. He aimed for the eye on the area which could not quite rightly be called a "forehead," hoping that it would prove to be some kind of weak point, and fired twice.

_BLAM! BLAM!_

Metalhead twitched, paused for a moment...and resumed its rampage. It reached forward, seeming to be groping blindly for purchase, trying to grab Henry and break him in two...but then Henry saw what it was really doing, and he started shooting again. It was rearing its other arm backward, intending to punch Henry into a pulp with one massive fist.

The gun's last four shots all hit at different points; the first one hit the eye, just like the two before them, but the next one hit the creature's elbow, which had flown up in front of its face as if in defense. The next one bounced off of its underbelly, just beneath the arm, and the last shot hit it smack in the gut. None of the bullets seemed to have caused any real damage, but at the same time, Metalhead appeared to be reacting to them, somehow.

To Henry's amazement, Metalhead's movement quickly began to slow down. Its reared fist launched itself forward, clearly intending to beat Henry straight into the elevator--a manageable task, as the thing's hand was larger than much of Henry's body--but before it had traveled more than a few inches, it slowed...slowed...stopped.

Henry found himself in a very awkward position; standing here, just inside the open elevator with sirens blaring, a smoking gun in one hand, Metalhead poised to attack but seemingly frozen in time and space midway through a punch.

Realizing that the gun was no longer of use to him--he really doubted that he would encounter .45 ammunition anywhere in this building, or anywhere else--Henry tossed it at Metalhead. It rebounded with a tinny _clang_, and the instant he did it he regretted it, for he expected the monster to come lurching back to life, infuriated...but no such thing happened. The creature remained still.

_For the moment,_ Henry thought. _I should get out of here before..._

The sirens had quit again.

"What...?" he leaned forward, stepping out of the elevator. His face brushed uncomfortably close to Metalhead's prepped fist. He wasn't going to be able to slip between the wall and the monster--for better or for worse, he was trapped here, in the elevator, until he either got the cab moving or became a stain on the end of this monster's fist.

Henry plucked the gun up from Metalhead's feet, where it had fallen when he'd thrown it. He stepped back inside the elevator...and the sirens started up again.

_WOOONK! WOOONK! WOOONK!_

Henry chucked it onto the floor again, this time making sure that it avoided contact with Metalhead, and the sirens stopped.

Somehow, the gun was what was triggering the siren. _But how?_ he wondered.

Well...on second thought, it probably wasn't all that odd. What with all of the modern security technology corporations were utilizing nowadays, Henry wouldn't have been surprised to find that the elevator was using some kind of firearm-detection system, to prevent terrorism or robbery. The fact that such an explanation raised more questions than it answered was not of importance to Henry at the moment; he quickly occupied himself with convincing the elevator to take him someplace else, _any_place else. He pressed all four buttons, but only the _B _button would answer his plea...this time, once again to Henry's surprise, the doors slid closed with a dainty little _ding!_, and soon after, the cab began to move downward.

Henry sighed with relief, wondering how he always seemed to experience such magnificent luck. Not that he was _complaining, _or anything--he was thankful as hell--but at the same time, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being guided somehow, by some unseen hand, perhaps some bored kid with a video game controller.

His thoughts were interrupted when the cab halted abruptly, and the doors slid open, revealing something so strange, so unusual, that he actually felt like he had lost control over his entire body for just a moment in trying to react to it. It wasn't at all what he had expected to see, even in a place like this--it was as if someone had reached into a part of his brain he never knew existed, pulled out some unspeakable mechanism he'd never used--had never know _how _to use--and splayed it before him like some kind of psychotic new-age art piece.

"What...the hell?"

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It was so late into the night that it could almost be considered early the next morning when the brown sedan coasted to a stop on the lawn in front of the Hotel, its tires screeching briefly, and three of its four doors opened, spitting out a uniformed police officer of medium build with a thick but short mop of wavy black hair, a burly, gray-haired detective in a long coat, and a blonde-headed nineteen-year-old blind girl with bloody bandages wrapped around her face, this last being escorted by the detective. Douglas actually opened Heather's door for her, took her by the shoulder, and escorted her towards the main door under which the wooden sign--_Lakeview Hotel and Resort--_hung like a warning from ancient times.

"What happened here?" Douglas wondered aloud, easing away from Heather. She allowed herself to slide down onto her knees, apparently feeling very woozy--enough so to keep her from maintaining her balance, anyway.

"What's up?" Herring asked. He was still sitting with one leg in the car and one leg out, fishing around in the glovebox for the backup flashlight he knew Douglas carried with him. He could have just looked up and seen what Douglas was regarding, but he had found something much more captivating: a photo, which had been stuffed into the very back of the glovebox, behind a pair of driving gloves.

_This must be..._

The photo showed a man who looked strikingly similar to Douglas--though considerably younger--standing with his arms around a short young man and an even shorter middle-aged but pretty woman, all three visible only from the chest up. The young man's hair was a tousled brown, short and slicked back from his face, and he wore a baggy white t-shirt--the guy was so short, he barely came up to his father's shoulders. The woman had silky black hair that ran down to her bare shoulders, where it pooled and seemed to slip away like a rubbery liquid, perhaps mercury. She wore a shoulderless pink top that swam down over a generous bosom, and the look on her face was one of sheer, unadulterated bliss.

Looking at the photo filled Herring with a deep sense of regret. It had been a long time since he'd taken the photo. Two of the people in it were gone now, one dead and one...well...

It seemed like so much longer, now that he thought about it. And it must seem infinitely longer to Douglas.

"Looks like someone just ran right through here," the detective's voice carried across the lawn, startling Herring out of his daze. He hurriedly stuffed the photo back into the glovebox, taking care not to damage it but also trying desparately not to be seen handling it. In the process, he found the flashlight--_Eureka!_--and he aimed it towards the sound of Douglas' voice as he rose out of the vehicle. The beam fell right on Douglas' face. "Damn it, John, will you take that thing out of my face?"

"Sorry," Herring said, and pointed the flashlight towards the door, seeing what it would reveal. "Whoa! I'll say."

The front door had been splintered inward from a contact point about six feet up, causing gaping cracks to shoot all the way down to the base. The sides of the door still stuck to their hinges, but the majority of the door itself had been scattered all over the lobby floor. Herring could see the master staircase from out here.

"Who do you think did this?" he asked, joining Douglas in front of the door. "It doesn't look like your run-of-the-mill vandal operation."

Douglas shook his head. "No. Worse."

Herring looked his old partner in the eye. "James?"

But the detective would add nothing more.

"In any case," Herring continued, "let's do whatever it is we came to do so we can get the hell outta dodge." He turned to Heather, who lay kneeling on the grass a few feet behind. "Why exactly _are _we here, anyway? Like, specifically, what are we looking for? Any ideas?"

Heather responded immediately, sensing that he had been talking to her. "Well, _if _this is the right place--if it's where James' treasure is--then we'll probably need to look for a sign of some kind. I doubt it's just going to be sitting out in the open like a pigeon in a field."

"What kind of sign, you think?"

"I don't know, to be perfectly honest," she said, standing up. She started to topple, and Herring caught her under the elbow, steadying her. "Thanks," she said, brushing herself off. "Anyway, I don't know exactly _what _it will be. Just keep an eye out for anything extraordinary or out of place."

Herring turned to Douglas, but found that the detective had already gone inside. Panicking, he took Heather by the shoulder and led her through the broken door, taking care not to catch any part of her on one of the many protruding splinters. He relaxed when his flashlight beam fell upon his partner, standing on the far side of the room, in front of the reception desk. The shutter had been pulled down, and a penetrative attempt similar to the one on the main door had been made, presumably by the same intruder.

"This is certainly odd," Herring said, approaching Douglas with one assisting arm still wrapped around Heather's shoulders. "It looks like somebody was trying to keep something from getting out."

Douglas leaned forward slightly, not quite willing to stick his head in--who knew what man or beast had caused this, or if said man or beast still lurked within the reception office? "I'd say it didn't work out too well."

"What is it?" Heather asked.

"There's a big hole in the reception desk shutter," Herring said. "Looks like maybe somebody was hiding inside." He shuddered. "I'd hate to think what happened to him. Or her."

He thought he could feel Heather shuddering, too. It was probably just the atmosphere of this place--it felt cold, deserted...dead. As if they were the first three people to come here in a long, long time.

"Let's start with the upstairs," Douglas said. "That'll take the longest. And once we have that out of the way, we can start down, one floor at a time.

"If that James fellow's 'treasure' is here, we're gonna find it. And we're gonna work it over real nice."

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The hall beyond the elevator seemed to be made entirely of some glowing orange element, crawling with tiny squiggling shapes just beneath the surface, shapes that emitted a low, omnipresent humming sound, like that of heavy machinery. The only area not constructed of this peculiar element was the floor, which was nothing more than a shaky metal grate running down the hallway to the left. The hall branched to the right, as well, but the floor did not follow suit--there was simply nothing there, a deep void from which it would certainly be impossible to escape, if one were to fall in. It wasn't a _hole,_ either, not an ordinary hole--about ten feet down, the walls just seemed to melt _into _it, as if the darkness were some kind of viable, physical element into which the environment was being drawn. On top of all of this, the lighting was minimal at best--the room's dark-orange tint was caused by the faint glow emanating from the walls, the by-product of which was presumably that odd, rhythmic humming that seemed to come from everywhere at once. This lighting effect reminded him of his old study, way back in the house he'd lived in before occupying Room 302, where he would often leave only a single faint lamp on by which to do his evening reading.

Henry was almost afraid to step forward, for fear that the grate would collapse and hurtle him into that oozing darkness, but at long last he found the strength to place one foot in front of the other, out onto the "floor"...then the other...and then he was standing outside of the elevator, looking up at the non-ceiling--above, the walls continued for a ways before they simply ceased to be. There was only darkness beyond; no ceiling, no sky, no vast heavens. Only emptiness.

He looked away, unable to bring his mind to terms with what he was seeing; this place seemed like something out of a horror movie, only so much _weirder_. It seemed like a separate universe entirely--in the same respect that the Other Walter's world had been a different _world,_ this seemed like a different _universe,_ one that existed based on principles that ran completely contradictory to those of the world known by man, a world that was in the process of being consumed by some grand, terrible thing.

Behind him, the elevator doors _ding_ed shut. Henry barely had time to turn and catch the cab as it dropped down the shaft, landing in the "pool" of darkness below with a motion that was too fluid, and with a lack of sound that was eerie in context. As it fell into the darkness below, its descent seemed to slow for a moment, as if hampered by the density of the dark matter. Eventually, it was gone.

Henry thanked his luck that he had stepped out of the elevator...but then, he wondered, what had he stepped _into_?

And how was he going to get _out_?

_Here goes,_ he thought, taking a deep breath, and took a step down the hall to the left. And another. And another. Soon, he was walking ever-so-slowly, trying not to allow himself to run for fear of letting panic take his mind and body into its foggy embrace. He had never been so uncomfortable in his life, not even amidst the twisted creations of the Other Walter's world--though he couldn't say he was _scared, _not exactly. This was some brand-new emotion, a feeling that caused him not to fear for his life, but to simply refuse to comprehend what was happening out of nothing more than basic instinct. The more he looked at the walls, the more out-of-place he felt, lost in this extraordinary place.

About a hundred feet down, the path widened out to either side, forming an oval-shaped room about forty feet wide and thirty or so feet long. The walls were made of the same strange material, but the floor had become a red-tinted rustic metal grate riddled with oblong ventillation holes. It was also more resilient than the floor in the hallway--even when Henry bounced firmly on it, applying as much pressure as he dared using both feet, the grate did not give even a little bit.

Henry approached the center of the room, looking up at the "ceiling." The strange void was not as prominent here, but its presence could not be ignored; there was a platform covering the top of the room, made of the same material as the wall, but seeping in from what were probably cracks in the corners, the dark matter had begun to creep inside. Streams of it oozed down the walls on all sides, not quite touching the floor.

_Yet,_ Henry thought to himself.

The strangest part of the black mass was that it seemed to be thick and malty, like some kind of frozen treat; it was thinly-distributed enough to be transparent in some places, but in other, denser areas, it was too thick and pasty to see through. This display of the matter's physics made Henry all the more uncomfortable about standing just a few inches above what might well be a bottomless sea of the stuff. He had to look away after awhile; as long as his eyes were focused on the black matter, he felt almost hypnotized, as if his very human desire to understand what he was seeing was trying to take over his mind completely. If he stayed too long, he might start thinking too much. Thinking things he shouldn't be.

_I've got to get out of here,_ Henry said, recalling the moment he'd stepped out of his apartment during the panic attack he'd had earlier that week. He was experiencing a degree of deja-vu particularly relevant to that moment; as if further confrontation with the emotions this place so easily summoned would drive him mad.

On either side of the room, Henry noticed, the hallway continued for a ways, and the floor returned to that shaky metal construction. To the left, the path stretched on for what seemed like forever, passing the limits of Henry's vision. To the right, the metal floor continued for a ways before twisting off into the blackness below, apparently severed by some abrupt means.

Not knowing what awaited him, but unable to stand here for any further duration, Henry opted for the left-hand road.

As the path narrowed inward once again, Henry found himself scrunching his shoulders together in an effort to avoid contact with the walls. The way they crawled, the way they _pulsated_, led Henry to regard them with the same care he might regard an envelope full of anthrax.

After some time he reached the turn; just as he did, he heard a strange noise coming from very far behind. His blood ran cold, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck--his instincts were telling him that he was about to experience something on the borderline of possibility.

Turning around, he saw a vague, monochromatic shape at the far end of the path--rather, floating just _above _the path. It was faint, but Henry thought he knew what it was anyway, and it filled his heart with dread. If the headache which immediately struck him--almost to his knees--was not enough of an indicator, the familiar groans of the living dead were.

"No," Henry said, backing away from the sight. "No, it can't be. You're..." But he could say no more. Blinded by a sudden, almost phobic hysteria, he turned, rounded the corner, and ran for his life. He ran, and he ran, and he ran, feeling his side give out but unable to stop running--here it was, the moment at which panic would overtake him, and sure enough, it leaped at the opportunity. Adrenaline rushed to every corner of his body; he broke out in a terrified sweat, and he began to lose feeling in the tips of his extremities. At last, up ahead, he saw a widening in the path. He pressed himself to his limit, not stopping or looking back. He heard that awful groaning again

(_GRRAAAAAAAHHHH)_

tearing through his head like an ice pick, and he fought to maintain control of himself, to keep himself from crashing onto the floor (or worse, the seemingly infectious walls) at full speed. He reached the widening in the path and halted, realizing with dawning horror what it was.

A dead-end. The path ended in a large square room; no exits, no anything.

He turned back, not wanting to but unable to let the ghost approach him from behind any longer, and saw the figure floating down the path towards him, still as (alive? dead?) as it had seemed the first time he'd encountered it back in Room 302. It was...

"It's you," he said, unable to do anything but stare in horrified fascination as the bald-headed ghost approached him. "I...I can't..."

The spirit floated towards him, its legs bent in mid-air as if its owner had died and then entered rigor mortis in the fetal position, resulting in an extreme difficulty moving its appendages. It came to rest on the ground just inside of the room, less than ten feet away from Henry. It stood there, knees slightly bent, and looked at Henry with wide, dead eyes.

It took a step towards him. And another.

"This can't be," Henry said. "I destroyed it. I destroyed _him!_ You...you should've--"

An intense sensation interrupted his speech, filling his entire body...a heat, tremendous and sudden, rushing out from some center near his heart. He couldn't breathe; he began clawing at his chest, trying vainly to tear through his shirt with his absurdly short fingernails...and he felt a shape, vibrating just beneath his shirt, a shape that filled him with bewildered terror. His mind immediately raced to images of some monster bursting out of his chest.

But a quick probe of his neck revealed otherwise; the shape was not that of something pressing through, trying to burst free, but that of a strange icon he didn't quite recognize--a silver cross, hanging from a thin chain around his neck.

_What the...?_ he didn't have time to be stunned over this odd development, but he did have time to recall from where the cross had come--he thought he remembered getting it from that priest at St. Jerome's Church in South Ashfield. Yeah...that guy had given Henry the cross as a charm, or something. He couldn't remember the exact conversation that had surrounded the exchange, just that it had occurred shortly after his "confession."

The cross glowed, emitting a light so bright that Henry had to close his eyes, turn away and hold the cross away from himself to keep it from hurting his head.

The ghost standing before him immediately bounced backward six feet, hurtling through mid-air, still half-crouched into that odd imitation of the fetal position. Its eyes, though blank, seemed to regard Henry with a level of disgust and anger. It didn't look directly at the cross--in fact, it behaved as if doing so would be detrimental to its health, if the thing could be said to _possess _health. It hovered there in mid-air, just out of what was presumably the charm's range.

Henry realized what was happening, and he held the cross out in front of him. "That's it," he said, waving it like a child might wave a newly acquired favorite toy. "It weakens you, doesn't it?"

The ghost howled, filling Henry's heart and mind with a dreadful feeling like nothing he had ever heard before

_(GGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAHHH)_

as if the "sound" had instead been a wave of pure negative emotion, spreading throughout the room as a sound wave spreads from the source of the vibration which causes it.

"Why are you here?" Henry asked the thing, looking at its all-too-familiar face. "We destroyed Walter. He's gone. So why are you here?"

_(He's not gone.)_

Henry started, surprised by the sound of Joseph's voice in his head. That familiar voice, in a context which was anything but. "Get away from me," he said.

_(It's futile to even try. He wants what he gets, and he gets what he wants. In the end, all things in his world return to him.)_

"Who's 'him?'" Henry asked. "Walter?"

_(Him. Nothing. Everything.)_

"What are you talking about?" Henry said. "I don't understand."

(_You don't need to understand. It doesn't matter if you understand. You have served your purpose. It is almost time for you to come back.)_

"Come back?'" Henry said, backing away. "I don't know what you're getting at, but in all honesty, I don't care. I'm not going anywhere, and neither is Eileen."

_(It's too late for her.)_

"What do you mean?" Henry asked. His heart immediately started beating hard, almost enough for him to fear that it might burst out of his chest, ending this odd exchange right here. The imminence of his fear for Eileen was suddenly present in full force once again, as it had been shortly before Metalhead's pursuit had begun--he was beginning to imagine a scenario to go with the information that Rachel, Eileen's nurse, had related to him: That Eileen had checked herself out of St. Jerome's and gone somewhere.

_(It's too late for her. She is already here. She has already been exposed to His magic.)_

"What do you mean, she's _here?_'" Henry demanded. "What does any of this have to do with Walter?" He didn't feel he needed to clarify about _which_ Walter he was speaking.

_(You don't understand. It was all part of the plan. This is how he wanted it to be.)_

"The plan?" Henry asked, feeling his heart sink. "What are you saying? Walter meant it this way? What does that mean?"

_(You were supposed to defeat him. Then you were supposed to come here. The ritual can only truly be completed here. This is where the Hole is._)

"What hole?"

_(The Hole. Rather, where the Hole goes. The Ritual draws from the Hole, and must be in proximity for the full effect.)_

"There's got to be a way to stop it," Henry said. "You know all of this. Tell me how to stop Walter!"

_(There is no stopping. He is unstoppable.)_

"I don't believe that," Henry said.

_(Frankly, it doesn't matter what you believe.)_

Before Henry could respond, an earth-shattering boom issued from directly behind him. He pivoted solely on reflex--given enough time to make a conscious decision, he would not have turned his back on Joseph's ghost, even if it was _Joseph's_ ghost--but he was not quick enough. Metalhead had torn through the wall like the tank that (he? it?) was, ripping it down the center like a child might rip open a Christmas present (minus the extreme display of emotion), and seized Henry's torso in its powerful left arm. Henry struggled, tried to get free, pounded on the thing's fists, unable to believe that this could happen--that he had ever been dumb enough to come here and let this happen, but also that Joseph and the other souls were, indeed, still wandering in limbo, and would be for all eternity--and then he felt the thing begin to squeeze down on him. Harder...harder...he couldn't breathe...black shapes swam on the edge of his vision...

_BLAM!_

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I just don't get it," Herring said, frustrated. They were standing on the roof of the Lakeview Hotel and Resort, looking down at what might have been the front lawn, though it was impossible to tell through the fog. "I mean, how the hell are we supposed to know what we're looking for? Will it be shimmering in heavenly light, or will it be glowing with fire and brimstone, or what? Or will it just look like a regular ol' thing?"

Heather sighed, sitting on the ledge and facing towards the door through which they'd come--a tiny shack with a single door that opened onto a staircase, which would take them down to the third floor observation room. "I don't know," she said. "It's the center of James' power, so it _should_ look special, somehow--if it's something significant to him, it should look the part--but I can't say for sure. I just wish I'd gotten to talk to Stanley about it in person, much as I can't stand him. At least then I'd have a clue, a point in the right direction."

"Who is this Stanley, anyway?" Douglas asked. "You said you'd tell us later."

"It's not later yet," Heather said. "Besides, we're a bit busy, in case you didn't notice."

"You're not," Douglas said harshly, unwittingly poking fun at her new handicap.

Heather recoiled, as if struck. She looked deeply hurt by the remark.

"I'm sorry," Douglas said. "Forget I said anything."

Heather showed no sign of acknowledgement.

Looking down into the pitch-black blanket of fog that covered the town, Herring contributed a sigh of his own. Ever since they'd reached the hotel, he had felt a deep, all-encompassing sadness--almost a depression--hanging over his very soul like a rain cloud, an ill omen. He couldn't shake the feeling that something horrible was going to happen soon. It was probably just a by-product of the emotion that photograph had envoked--memories of happier times, memories of those happy times being crushed by the inevitable aftermath of the "happily ever after" sort of life--but all the same, he could not rationalize around it. It was there, and it was powerful.

"Let's go back," Douglas said. "Start on the third floor. We need to keep moving. The longer we stand still, the more of an advantage James has against us."

"Right," Herring said, pausing for one more glance into the abyss. "Yeah...right."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of the bullet bouncing off of Metalhead's shell should have come as a surprise to Henry--as it did--but it had apparently surprised Joseph's ghost as well. Henry's head throbbed, partially from the constricting of his airways but also from the

_(AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRGH!)_

which had emanated from the very center of his brain, as if Joseph wasn't _sending _the cry to him, but awakening an area deep in the center of his brain which had already contained it and setting it off like a storm siren.

_BLAM! Cha-chink! BLAM! Cha-chink! BLAM!_

The mysterious savior was chambering another round when Henry felt himself slide out of Metalhead's grip, landing on the ground beneath the outstretched fist. He was far too busy choking and holding on to the last of his consciousness to follow the unbelievable situation taking place around him.

Just before slipping away, Henry managed to look up.

Beyond the wall through which Metalhead had entered, there was more of that black element, puddled just below "ground level," but that was not the odd part. The odd part was the man who seemed to have appeared from nowhere, wearing a long green coat--not quite a trenchcoat, but not just any old overcoat, either--and weilding a bolt-action rifle, the man who had come down the hallway through which Joseph had chased Henry. His long, dirty-blonde hair swished as he roamed towards the menacing Metalhead, taking each step with a vigorous overconfidence so utterly _believable_ it was scary. The man lifted up one booted heel, placed it on the very center of Metalhead's chest--stepping over Henry's collapsed form to do so--and gave the creature a kick straight back into the blackness. Metalhead, still frozen from whatever strange effect the bullets had on it, toppled over like a stone statue and fell into the blackness, sinking ever-so-slowly.

Henry looked away, unable to face the sheer strangeness of that black liquid-void. It was like nothing he had ever imagined. It was there, it seemed to have form...but it also _didn't._ Its very nature was above his mind's ability to comprehend.

He was coughing, coughing...gagging, gasping for breath...black shapes, like giant roses, coming in from all sides...fading...blackness.

Blackness, and that low, mechanical humming.

END OF CHAPTER 25


	26. And That Is The Truth

**Chapter 26**

**...And That Is The Truth**

_"Cemetary in my mind_

_Cemetary in my mind_

_This must be my time..."_

"Cemetary In My Mind," _Midnight Oil_

_(Redneck Wonderland)_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_He is dead._

_But he is not dead._

Is _he dead? It's difficult to tell. The pain in his chest has subsided for the moment--signifying either that he has been saved by some miracle of God, or that he has finally passed beyond the reach of pain--but this can't be Hell. One thing's for sure--it certainly isn't Heaven. Not that he expected to wind up in Heaven, after all he's done in his lifetime._

_He has opened his eyes, and what he sees is not as disturbing as it is just odd. He sees a long, dark hallway, with wooden floorboards and stucco walls. It's a familiar place, but he's never been here. The person he was ten minutes ago would've asked how that can be, but he is losing touch with that person. He is Changing._

_"No!" he says, reaching out with his mind, trying to hold on to himself. "I'm not! I won't!" But it's too late; already, the fake memories are fading. He can hold on to the illusion no more. The Truth is invading his mind, filling him with a bottomless depression. This is what really happened. This is the way it really is._

_There's a flash._

_He's no longer standing in the hallway. He's been moved to the far end, standing in the threshold of some kind of gravesite. The ground is uneven and dirty, not the well-kept environment properly offered to those sleeping the eternal sleep. It's a makeshift graveyard. No, it's not. It's not a graveyard at all. It _looks _like a graveyard, but that's not what it is. Its real purpose is reflected from that, however, so perhaps it's close enough not to matter. Marked graves, unmarked graves, scratched-beyond-legibility graves, their owners long forgotten, dead in more ways than one, litter the room. And yet the room is walled in on four sides, with only one hallway leading out--the same way he's come in._

_This is the hall of the dead, where the spiders spin and the great circuts fall quiet, one by one._

_He hears a sound coming from the left; he looks, and sees a man, kneeling before one of the marked graves, off to the right and facing straight ahead. He is weeping. His hands clutch wads of his dense white hair, and he is muttering something over and over again: "I understand now, it all makes sense...I understand!" The sight disturbs Walter deeply--the man doesn't even seem to acknowledge Walter's presence._

_He steps forward, passing by a gravestone he can't read--it's too scratched up. He continues to the far side of the room, where three gravestones are packed into the corner, separated from the others for more reasons than can be explored at this time. He reads the name off of one, and feels a chill run down his spine: _Angela Orosco._ It's familiar somehow, but he can't place it. Probably someone he met in passing, long ago. Or maybe he read about it in the paper. It's hard to tell with his memories fading as they are._

_"You've come," a voice says from behind, and Walter turns to see who is speaking. It is none other than Walter--the Other Walter. The one who has brought him here, perhaps?_

_"What do you want from me?" Walter asks. "What have you done to me?" He tries to move forward, to attack the monster who looks like a man, but finds that he cannot move. He has been frozen in place by some power._

_"I've done nothing to you," the Other Walter says. "I can't do anything to you, anyway. I have no power over you. You should know that. _You're_ the one who has the power."_

_"What are you babbling?" Walter demands, looking himself in the eye. "I'm just a guy. Nothing special about me. You stole my name and exploited it, so now everyone thinks I'm a crazy child-killer. But other than that, I'm a normal guy."_

_"I didn't steal your name," the Other Walter says impatiently. "You don't remember yet, do you?"_

_"Remember what?" Walter says, growing irritable. "If you have something to say to me, just say it! Stop speaking in riddles!"_

_"Fine," the Other Walter says. "I'm you. You're me. 'Tu Fui, Ego Eris.' The ultimate Truth."_

_"I see you kept your promise," Walter spits. "Who are you, the fuckin' riddler?"_

_"You took latin, didn't you?" the Other Walter jeers. "You tell me what it means."_

_"Directly? 'I was you. You will become me.' But it doesn't mean anything. You were never me. And I won't ever become you."_

_"You're right," the Other Walter says. "Sort of. _I _was never _you._ I was never anyone, because I'm not real, not like you are."_

_"What? You're standing here, aren't you?"_

_"This place is thin," the Other Walter says. "Reality, unreality--none of that matters here. It's somewhere between. Originally, they thought that using a place between reality and unreality would help them get closer to the forces that bind the universe--God, if you will. But there's something they didn't expect."_

_"Who's 'they?'"_

_"The originals," the Other Walter continues. "The first men and women to come here. The ones who originated the faith of which you're a part, whether you like it or not. They discovered that this place was thin--was close to the borderlines of reality and unreality. They believed that the border was like a seam in the fabric of the universe, and that the lines of power that tie everything together--like the threads in a fabric--were just beneath that seam. But they dared not break it or dissect it; they only wanted to get close to it. Study it, explore its true nature. It was all part of their quest for enlightenment. If they could discover their purpose, then perhaps they could learn to live better, more efficiently. To do what needed to be done."_

_Walter listens, enthralled, but wonders how this bears on the issues at hand. He gives voice to this inquiry._

_"Simple," the Other Walter says. "It's your story. Your message."_

_Walter doesn't understand._

_"So listen, and you will." The Other Walter continues. "Over time, the religion was changed. The White Man, as some called him, came along and effectively destroyed the original faith. Over time, as the religion began to resurface, the White Man tried to assimilate parts of it, to both destroy the original faith and to convince followers of that faith to convert to the 'acceptable tradition' of Christianity. However, while the true faith had been destroyed, there were those who were dedicated to ressurecting it. To following it even when faced with threats of death, charges of witchcraft. The faith was demonized by the White Man, who called the faith's Gods by the names of Devils, Devils commonly associated with their Christian faith. All of this, of course, in the name of assimilation. Removal of the enemy faction. But the other faith wasn't an enemy faction--wasn't a faction at all. Just a group of peaceful people, dedicated to the truth. People who were loyal to no particular religious doctrine--they were scientists, in the truest sense. They wanted to know the meaning of the universe, but they did not limit themselves solely to physical or spiritual explanation. They did not have a bias to operate on. That's what I--what you--never understood about the White Man's original actions against the faith. You didn't understand why the White Man had tried to remove the faith. To you, it seemed almost as if the White Man was more concerned about being _right_--about perpetrating their own views about how the universe worked--than with finding the truth. You theorized that the White Man may have actually experienced something close to the "truth," something both affiliated with the agnostic faith _and _conflicting with the White Man's religious doctrines, that caused them to fear the faith. To fear the truth. Because, as you of all people certainly know, the truth is _not _always pretty. Sometimes, it can be frightening...even disturbing."_

_Walter could only stand, mesmerized. Something in his mind, something that had been sealed away for a long, long time, was being uncovered. He imagined he could _feel _this thing, sliding loose and revealing a whole new world of comprehension, a whole new person, beneath._

_"When Frank Sunderland found you, and brought you to the hospital, Jimmy Stone saw his chance. He swept you up, took you under his wing. Told you you were special. But you could see through him. You knew he only saw you as a tool, a tool to perpetrate his faith. The faith of the Order, who claimed to be loyal to the original faith, the one destroyed by the White Man. But you knew, you _knew,_ that the original faith had been about the truth. You became obsessed with their doctrines, you read about the origins. You researched religious doctrine from a very young age, refined your knowledge of the subject to the extent at which you could have professed in it as a science by the time you were no older than fifteen, had you so desired, had your reach been that far. You came to the conclusion that the Wish House, and the religion they were using the Wish House to accustom you to, was all a lie. The events that took place in that hell hole were not in the interest of truth, not at all--they were in the interest of perpetrating _their _faith, the high priests' preconceived beliefs about life, the universe, and everything. At first you rebelled--you were too young to know otherwise--but once you realized that they intended to break you, you decided to play along. You actually _became _a fanatic of the faith. But what you disguised from others was that your _true _loyalties lay not with the Order, not with the Organization, but with the original faith--with the Truth."_

_"My love for God," Walter said, "wasn't actually for God at all. It was for the truth. The fire I felt in my heart when I preached about God was not a passion for God, not at all--it was a passion for Truth. It was a passion for the free-thinking desire to explore the universe's true nature. A passion for a world without bias."_

_The Other Walter smiled, nodding in approval._

_"That's when Jimmy Stone decided to use me to complete the 21 Sacraments, to summon God," Walter continued. He found that he was able to move again. "He wanted to bring the God to earth, not because he believed in it but because he _didn't _believe in it, not the way he was leading everyone to believe--not in the way everyone in the Order _thought _they believed. He thought that, by bringing God to earth, he could reaffirm his faith, prove it to himself. Because faith denies proof; he required proof, so he had no faith. I resented him for this, I called him a blasphemer. He beat me for it, but I still stood by my decision. He was afraid of me, because I knew his secret. He wanted me to perform the ritual _because_ I so openly displayed true faith, something with which he was unfamiliar. He was just a stupid fanatic, nothing more._

_"I agreed to perform the ritual. Jimmy Stone explained the texts to me, said that I was to take the role of the Angel Valtiel--to _become _him, in a sense. His purpose would be my purpose. I would be charged with the task of watching over the God, ensuring its descent. I read the texts on my own, later, to get a better grasp of my task. My rationalization for accepting the task was that I was studying the faith, seeking the truth. Nobody had ever actually tried to complete the Ritual of the 21 Sacraments, not in the way I had planned. I knew that the truth was not always pretty--knew that there was something underneath those lines, those seams, on the border--so I thought that the ugly, ugly truth must lie somewhere in those texts, the texts that were derived from the original faith, whose purpose was to find the truth. It was only a matter of interpretation--something the priests at Wish House did not condone. Their belief was in a One True Interpretation, and they persecuted anyone who felt otherwise. That was why the sects were always fighting one another. That is why the sect of Valtiel had stepped in, to mediate between them._

_"But I knew the truth was in free thinking, the ability to interpret things differently. So I researched the ritual, and at long last, I found a way--once and for all, I found a way to see for myself, to reach the boundary of reality and unreality. After months of research, I finally..."_

_Walter's face contorts, and he seems to have difficulty remembering._

_"Something wondrous happened," the Other Walter says, filling in the blanks. "You killed eight people--Jimmy Stone among them--carved numbers into their backs, and your name, as well. But you had never killed anyone before. The weight of what society deemed your 'crime' was far too much to bear. You became depressed, and came close to attempting suicide out of sheer guilt on several occasions. You were torn between the morals you were raised upon--mainly, your lament over the death of the innocent, especially by your own hand--and your desire to seek the truth. This guilt was amplified by a long novel you had read shortly before the murders, called _The Dark Tower,_ about a man who lives a life of sacrifice in the name of his Center, his Only. The man must learn to overcome this sacrificial lifestyle--must learn to be human--in order to reach his center. The idea had stuck in your mind, causing you to wonder if you would be denied the Truth for acting in such a selfish way--sacrificing the innocent, committing the ultimate sin, for what you thought of as the 'greater good.'"_

_"On top of that," Walter resumes, his memory clearing, "I was called back to town. I don't remember why, exactly, or how...but I was called back to town. That was during my depression. I came back, and I fell into the abyss."_

_The Other Walter smiles once again, clasping his hands together. The act would seem sinister, even maniacal, if not for the genuine positive joy in his eyes._

_"I came...here," he says, looking around. "To this room. This graveyard. It's not really a graveyard at all, not the kind where you bury bodies. It's the kind where you bury emotions, convictions. Parts of yourself. So it _is _a place of death...but it's also a place of new life. The new life that begins when you leave your old self behind. I came here, and I buried my guilt. I came to face with what was going to happen to me when I left--the cops had found me, and were staking out my house, among other locations. I knew my life was over, but it was here that I learned not to regret that. Maybe it was a reward from a higher power, or maybe it was the opposite--a means by which to get me to accomplish something--but somehow, part of me stayed here. My regret--the part of me that was weak, that was negatively affected by my parents' abandonment, and that showed signs of interfering with my task--came back to the surface world, to confront the life I had left behind. That part of me died. Killed himself. The rest of me stayed here--my determination. My passion. My desire for truth, and for the truest form of enlightenment._

_"Of course, part of my weakness survived, because that part of me was essential to my humanity--my desire to see my mother once again. The things the abyss showed me...horrible, horrible things. My father, an abusive bastard, forcing my mother to leave me behind. Blaming it on her. Leaving me behind without looking back. Showing no remorse. All of these things, memories I never knew I had. It was this part of me that was necessary to motivate me, to fill my heart with resentment--the only emotion strong enough to push me far enough to do what I needed to do. My father became the object of my hatred because of what I saw there, and my mother became the object of my sympathy. In seeking enlightenment, I now also sought salvation for my broken mother. An end to her suffering. I knew she was still alive, and that there was something I could do to help her."_

_The Other Walter claps slowly. "You have learned well," he says. "Do you remember what happened next?"_

_"The last part," Walter says, clearly exhausted, both spiritually and emotionally. "Yes, I remember that, as well. I finished the ritual. I murdered William Gregory and Eric Walsh, marked them as 9 and 10. I put my name on them. The police were bewildered. They couldn't understand. They thought I was a copycat murderer, that the real deal was dead. But it was the other way around--the false part, the me that wasn't really me, was the one who had died. I was here all along. I traveled to Room 302 with the hearts of my ten victims, plus a couple of other items I had some difficulty gathering, and performed the ritual, which culminated in my own messy crucifixion--I had never done it before, so it was a cheap job at best, but it worked. The _ritual _worked. I saw things...beautiful, wonderful things. I saw the borderline, I saw traces of the lines of power beneath...I saw the Truth. The One, Objective Truth. It filled me with a desire to go there, to revel in the light of the Truth. I did it--I saw the Truth!_

_"The ritual allowed me to become one with those seams, to exist within them. I knew then why they had called this 'receiving the power of Heaven.' I could use the lines of power, the seams of the universe, to travel anywhere I so desired. I could see things I would never have seen otherwise, to create worlds in the empty space between this one and the next, bend and shape them to my will...it was then that I began pondering: what is at the center? All rivers must have a delta, somewhere. Where would these lines, these worlds, converge? Is there really a God, after all? Is there more?_

_"I remembered the 21 Sacraments, and the notion of bringing God to earth...perhaps there really _was _a God, waiting in the wings, waiting to be summoned by one dedicated and true-hearted enough to complete the task, with only the most noble of intentions. By that point, of course, my desire for enlightenment was not for myself but for my mother. I sought only to end her suffering, and by any means necessary. I had to remain human, to remain thoughtful, in order to proceed with a true heart...but I had to commit murders. I had to kill people._

_"This was my chance, then. A chance to do the world a justice. To wipe out some rodents. To get revenge. It was not a pure-hearted thing to do, but as long as I rationlized it as a service to others, and not as a whim of my own, I hoped that God would understand. And in a way, I _did _believe it was a service to others--I wanted to expose the Wish House for what it was. How could they keep quiet, stay in the shadows as they were, with their key members dropping dead left and right? I would expose them from the shadows, and they would never know what hit them."_

_Walter smiles as he remembers this part. The Other Walter meets his eyes, expressing a similar sentiment, and Walter takes notice that the Other Walter is growing thin, almost transparent._

_"I did, too. I killed the Order. I dismantled them completely, and they never saw it coming. My other side--my sensitive side, my emotional side--tried to interfere, but it didn't work. It only slowed me down, which, ironically, was its purpose in the first place--the reason I'd gotten rid of it. It manifested as a child, and tried to appeal to me using emotions I no longer completely understood."_

_He looks up at the Other Walter. "The Order was gone. No more would they travesty the beliefs of the original faith. No more would they use their resources to promulgate their heinous religious doctrines, their teachings of hate, rage, wrath, intolerance._

_"Now, the religion itself is gone, disappeared forever. But the spirit...the spirit is still alive."_

_"That it is, my friend," the Other Walter says, now as transparent as a ghost in a 50's horror movie. He can be seen through as though he is a projection on a wall. "That it is. The spirit of the Truth will always be alive. _Always. _It lives in the hearts and minds of the True, all over the world."_

_Walter nods, smiling. And with that, the Other Walter is no more; he has vanished like the image he is, his purpose fulfilled._

_Walter turns around and kneels before a gravestone he hasn't seen yet, one that reads _Walter Sullivan._ This is the place; the place where he has buried his negative emotions, his weaknesses._

_"The memories were fake," he says, "because the life I created was fake. I understand it all, now. When Henry killed me...somehow, a part of me was saved. A part of me was moved, and my false life began. The memories...they were tainted, a shaky foundation at best. It didn't matter, though, because they were only temporary."_

_He touches the gravestone, runs his fingers over his own name. "And you...you were never real. The Other Walter...hah! I created you myself, to remind me who I was. How could I ever forget that?"_

_A voice speaks to him now, from the back of his mind: _You know what you have to do now, right?  
_"Yes," he answers. "I know what I came here to do. What I was trying to tell myself. What the illusions mean."_

Let's do it, then. Shall we?

Gladly,_ Walter thinks. "It's time to leave here. It's time to go."_

Bingo!

_"It's time, Galvin. It's time, Townshend. I will kill the both of you, and I will discover God._

_"And that is the Truth."_

END OF CHAPTER 26


	27. Death of a Champion Revisited

**Chapter 27**

**Death of a Champion (Revisited)**

_"Who's gonna straighten me up when I'm leaning?_

_Who's gonna soothe my heart when it's burning?  
Who's gonne be the one to tell me everything's all right?_

_Goodnight, good guy."_

"Goodnight, Good Guy," _Collective Soul_

_(Hints, Allegations, and Things Left Unsaid)_

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As I have done before, I would like to show you a picture.

I would like for you to see three people, people who have been cast into a situation they cannot possibly understand, but have nonetheless banded together and taken a stand against the thing that troubles them most. Three people who, prior to this moment, have never really stopped to think about the ties that bind them, the simple things that have brought them as close as they are now. Sure, they have people whom they love, and who love them, but they don't truly understand it. And they won't, not for another few moments. But something horrible is about to happen, something that will cause them to examine these things with hindsight, to wonder why they never appreciated their simple comradery when they had the chance.

For it seems that sometimes, love cannot be truly understood--or even acknowledged--until it is lost.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Herring stood to one side of the door, his gun drawn, reaching slowly for the knob, intending to open it with the same hand he was using to hold the gun. Sweat was pouring off of every inch of his face; so far, they'd had no luck finding James' "treasure," but sooner or later, he was sure they would _have_ to come across it. Even if it wasn't in this building...just knowing that it _might _be, that the three of them might be this close to a source of power beyond their comprehension...the idea was enough to frighten him deeply. He had no idea what the limits of something spawned from a place like this might be; it might be a creature, or a person, or some kind of mix. It might be a piece of jewelry, it might be a person who could cause Herring to shoot himself in the head just by thinking about it. It could be all of those things, or none of them.

"Here goes," he muttered. He turned the knob and kicked the door open in one fluid motion, keeping his gun aimed straight in front of him as he scanned the room (rather, the hall leading _into _the room), quick as a flash. When the coast appeared to be clear, he waved a hand behind him. "Clear," he said, and Douglas escorted Heather into the hotel room--room 313.

The entrance of the room consisted of a hallway with a small closet to the immediate left--Herring noted that it would not be operable unless the front door was shut, as the two doors were back-to-back. This struck him as a particularly unwise exercise of architecture.

The main part of the room was fairly large, enough so to accomodate two adult-sized beds, complete with bedside tables, against the right-hand wall, as well as a long bureau with a TV-and-VCR set up on top of it, with plenty of footroom interspersed throughout--but what caught Douglas' attention was the far wall, made up of two large picture-windows. The curtain had been pulled to the side, affording a view (picturesque, indeed) of Toluca Lake below. The rust-colored fog blanketing the night currently obscured much of the waters from view, but looking closely, one could still make out the shapes of the Lakeview Hotel's boat dock, just off the shoreline, as well as the light-beacon hanging from a post just above it.

"Nice view, huh?" Herring said, joining Douglas at the window.

"What is it?" Heather asked.

"It's the lake," Douglas said. "Nothing worth seeing, really. It's too foggy."

"Oh, but it's beautiful, anyway," Herring said. "It's like we're snowed in, except we can sorta see through it."

Douglas glared at Herring, who shot him a look that seemed to say _What? I'm just being nice._

"It sounds like," Heather said gratefully. "Sorry if I'm being a burden, you guys. It just really sucks...I'm getting all depressed, thinking about how I'm gonna have to ask people questions like "what is it?" and "what does it look like?" for the rest of my life."

"That's not necessarily true," Herring said. "People have surgeries for that kind of thing, you know."

"I've never heard of people getting eye _implants, _though," Heather said, stumbling away from the window. Douglas assisted her to the bedside nearest the window, where she sat down. "Even if that was possible, you know how much _money_ that would cost? I'm not exactly rich, you know."

"Wasn't your dad a writer?" Herring said.

Douglas glared at Herring, much more intensely than before.

But Heather didn't seem to register any real grief at the mention of her father, contrary to what Douglas had expected. "Yeah," she said. "He was. But we never really lived that well. He struggled a lot of the time. Not that he wasn't good. Just that nobody seemed to like his style. Some people took him too seriously, and others not seriously enough." She shuffled. "You know, he wrote something one time that really got to me. I never told him--probably should've, but I didn't because I found it once, when I was going through his stuff when I shouldn't have been."

"What's that?" Herring asked.

"It's a poem," she said. "I don't remember it exactly, but it went something like...Through the fog they came along, dark creatures singing a terrible song/The rest of the bar laughed at him, but I felt my hope grow dim/They found him dead the next day, "No more stories from him," I heard them say/We blamed bad luck for his fate, but only I felt terror so great."

Douglas and Herring shared an uncertain look.

"Your father," Herring said. "Did he ever come to this town?"

"Yeah," Heather said. "It was about twenty years ago. He never told me about it, though. Not..." she trailed off.

"I didn't mean to--" Herring started to say.

"No, it's fine," Heather said. "I'm always going to be a little sad about it, but I guess, sooner or later, I have to talk about it more openly, or else I'll never get over it."

That statement made Douglas uneasy. He could tell by the way her voice quivered that she was lying. It made her very uncomfortable, indeed--she was still thinking that he was alive here, somewhere. Clinging desparately to a belief that couldn't possibly be verified. He feared for her; also, he wondered how far along her mental state had deteriorated. Was she still salvageable? Or would this final revelation utterly, completely destroy her?

"You're very strong to think that way," Herring said, unable to see through her ruse. Herring hadn't experienced the side of her that Douglas had--the side that was almost detestable at times. The resilient, rebellious side. He had only seen this diminished thing that was once the girl Douglas had known.

Some things about her would never change, it seemed.

"Thanks," Heather said. She leaned back on the bed. "God, I'm so tired..."

"No," Douglas said shortly. "Don't lie down, Heather. Not until we've had a chance to get you to a hospital."

"Why not?" she asked. "You let me sleep in the car, earlier."

"I wasn't sure if you were ever going to wake up earlier," Douglas said. "I don't know what kind of damage has been done to you. I'm not a doctor. So I think it's safe that you try not to sleep until we can get you to a hospital."

"I haven't had a concussion," Heather said, sounding off like an indignant child.

"We don't have time, anyway," Douglas said. "We've got to keep moving. Believe me, I want to rest as much as you two--" he paused, noting with some interest that he was the only one in the room who had not sustained some severe injury or another. "--but we can't afford to rest, not now. We've got to move before James finds us."

"I'm afraid I'll have to go with Doug on this one," Herring said. "You'll be in a lot of danger if you fall asleep here with James riding our tails."

"Whatever," Heather said, suddenly disinterested with the subject. "Let's just do this and get out of here."

"Now _that,_" Herring said, "is something I _can _agree with."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It's locked," Douglas said, jiggling the handle. He kicked the door.

It trembled in its frame, but not much.

"That's odd," Herring said. "So far, the other ones have all been unlocked."

"What room is it?" Heather asked.

"Three-twelve," Douglas said. "Why?"

"Just wonderin'," Heather said, ending her commentary.

"It won't budge," Douglas said, allowing Herring to brush past him and try the door himself. When that didn't work, Herring backed away from the door. "What are you doing?" Douglas asked.

"Want me to shoot it?" Herring said. "I can take the knob off."

Douglas thought about it. "We probably shouldn't. We don't have a lot of ammunition as it is."

"Like it's going to do any good," Herring said. "I've only found one thing it's even good for."

"It took care of Laurence," Douglas said. "That's good enough for me."

Herring was about to protest, but then he recalled his encounter with the shredded-frog monster. Maybe maintaining their ammunition supply wouldn't turn out to be as meaningless as he'd thought.

Douglas leaned down to examine the doorknob. Two screws held the plate in place around the knob; if he could remove those screws, they could take off the knob and unlock it that way. "I've got a tool kit in my trunk," he said, rising to his feet. He started to add _I'll run back and get it,_ but the thought of leaving Herring and Heather here alone set him off ease.

"Do you need something from it?" Herring asked, missing the point. "If you do, I'll run grab it for you."

"It's not safe," Douglas said.  
"The toolkit?"

"No," Douglas moaned, "splitting up."

"It's no big deal," Herring said. "It's just right outside the building. And the way things are going, this probably isn't even the right place to look, so I wouldn't be surprised if James is off somewhere right now, laughing at us, probably not even worrying about us."

Heather still sat against the wall across from the locked door, unresponsive. She didn't even really seem to care.

"I'll be right back," Herring said, and turned down the hall.

"No you won't," Douglas said. "It's not safe for us to separate."

Herring stopped, regarding his partner with contempt.

"You don't know this town like I do," Douglas said, casting a glance at Heather, a glance that said _feel free to help me out here._ Even though he knew she couldn't see him, he figured she'd pick up on the conversation.

She didn't.

"Things happen here," Douglas continued. "People disappear."

"I won't," Herring said. "Look, if you guys want to come with me, then come. I don't care. Let's just do what we're going to do and be done with it, on the offchance that James actually _is _on his way to kill us dead."

Douglas stared at Herring. "Just be quick about it, okay?"

"Sure," Herring said, reaching the staircase at the end of the hall. He disappeared down it without futher commentary.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Wake up."

He stirred, but did not wake.

"Wake up!"

He mumbled something unintelligible, still in the grip of a groggy haze.

"There's no time," the voice said. "You must wake up now. They're already here."

He opened his eyes, slowly but surely. When he saw the towering figure standing over him, he didn't know what to think at first. "Who...are you?"

"My name is James," the man said, staring into his eyes so deeply that he feared they might pierce down to his very soul. "And you're the Receiver."

"So I've heard," Henry said, rising into a sitting position indian-style. "What...happened back there?" He rubbed the back of his head, where the faintest trace of the ghost-induced headache was still throbbing.

"No time to explain," James said. He pulled back the bolt on his massive rifle--a custom job, apparently; it was like no gun Henry had ever seen--and glanced out the window immediately to his right.

They were in a bedroom, from the looks of it; Henry sitting on the floor at the edge of the bed, facing left, and James standing by the window, looking out into the fog. Glancing around, Henry saw the door directly behind him. "Are we still in the Lakeview?"

"Yes," James said. "This is much more than I had expected, though. I didn't know Walter had anything to do with this."

"You know Walter?" Henry ceased movement, as if all of the energy had been drawn from his body and redirected to his focus.

"Not _know_ him, but know _of_ him, yes," James said. "He's trying to kill you, I've gathered."

"Why did you save me?" Henry used the bedpost to hoist himself to his feet.

"Because you're the Receiver," James said. "Look, it's a long story. You're important, that's all you need to know. I'll try to explain what I can to you, once I've taken care of that damn cop. I warned him--I warned both of them--but they still came here." He hesitated, locked eyes with Henry once more. "I told the punk to warn you, but he ignored me. I should've known he was under Walter's influence. The bastard must've paralleled me, somehow."

"Who's under Walter's influence?" Henry said. "Which Walter are you talking about?"

"Walter Sullivan, of course," James said. "Come on." He brushed past James, starting towards the door.

"Wait," Henry said, but he followed. He didn't want to anger this "James" fellow any more than necessary, but his incessant curiosity almost seemed to demand just that. "The Good Walter, or the Other Walter?"

James had already opened the door and was halfway out of the room when he stopped. "There's two?"

"Yeah," Henry said. "The one I was travelling with. He's the one who helped me get here."

"The punk?" James turned, righteously baffled.

"I guess you could call him that," Henry said. "He's got an attitude, that's for sure."

"Leather jacket? Black hair?"

"That's him."

James' eyes narrowed. "Interesting. Perhaps there's more to him than I originally thought. Perhaps he's Walter's golem?"

"What are you talking about?" Henry said. James had begun to walk again, and Henry was following him to the right, down the hallway. He thought to glance back and see from which room they had emerged--203, interestingly, the inverse of his room at South Ashfield Heights--and almost lost sight of the mysterious James. He rushed to catch up.

"I don't know," James said. "It's very complicated. After I take care of this, I'll try and explain it to you. But right now, there's no time." He paused at the end of the hall, opened the grand door on the left, and stepped into the adjacent hall. "Just follow me, and it'll all be clear before long."

"You said you were going to 'take care of that damn cop,'" Henry said. "Who's the cop?"

"Two men and a girl," James said. "There's a cop with them. He's been messing around here for too long. I tried to warn him--the same way I tried to warn the punk--but he's turned away from me. He's decided to help that girl, instead. I don't know how he has it rationalized that what she's planning is right--unless she hasn't told him yet--but it doesn't really matter, now. Not anymore. Things have gone too far to just pack up and leave." He paused at an alcove on the right side of the hall. "Here." He turned into it.

Henry followed him into the tiny alcove-hall, past two doors--one on each side. At the far end, a window overlooked the rear garden, but the fog was far too thick to provide anything but the basic implications of a tree, positioned directly beside the window. Its loose branches scraped the glass, reminding Henry of that old cartoon cliche where a child mistook a tree at his window for a monster of some kind. To the right of the window was yet another door, this one marked _Reading Room._

"In here," James said, opening the door quietly.

The reading room was very small. Two wide bookshelves, positioned back-to-back, ran straight ahead, splitting the room into two small segments--to the left, a study of some sort, containing a scenic window over a desk littered with several different kinds of reading materials--magazines, novels, newspapers, all haphazardly scattered as if in the throes of intense scrutiny--and lamp, and another, smaller bookshelf immediately behind the desk, this one stacked with countless reference materials; to the right, a casual reading area--a single spotless round table, surrounded by three chairs and a sofa, the latter running against the far wall. Just above the sofa, a cuckoo clock--traditionally shaped like a little wooden bird house--counted the seconds off as they came--_tick, tock, tick, tock._ It was almost midnight--eleven-fourty-six.

James lead Henry to the right, where he sat down on the sofa. "You can sit here, if you like."

"I'd rather stand," Henry said, remaining by the door.

"Fine," James said, and would offer no more.

Henry stood, and James sat.

The clock ticked.

Henry imagined he could hear the dust settling in the room.

"Are we waiting for someth--"

"_Shh,_" James said, firmly but patiently. "Listen."

Henry listened.

James listened.

Again, Henry imagined he was listening to the dust collecting on the furniture. Time seemed to have slowed to nothing more than a crawl.

_What are we listening for? _Henry wondered. This was just too weird; he had so many questions for this man, this "James," questions he dared not ask for fear of agitating him--the man was _huge,_ or at least it seemed that way. He wasn't _muscular _by any means, not like a bodybuilder, which was probably part of what made him so unusual--it wasn't that he was _buff_ so much as he seemed to be a normal, lanky fellow who had nearly doubled in size by some incredible means, and the overcoat only contributed to the illusion of density. It was like those old comedies, where they would put two actors and a camera all in a perfectly straight line, and then roll the camera so that the actor closest to the camera appeared to be several times larger than the farther one. The guy was proportionate, just out of scale with the world around him. Another similarity occurred to Henry just then--he likened James to the main character of _Gulliver's Travels_, albeit on a smaller scale.

On top of that, the rifle did wonders for the man's intimidation factor.

After an eternity of seconds that was really only about two or three minutes, a smile crossed James' lips. He raised his head. "Here it comes," he said, and began to strap on his rifle.

"Here what comes?" Henry had crossed his arms, trying to appear as apathetic as possible.

"You'll see," James said, with a disturbing twinkle in his eye.

"Why do we have to be in this room when it comes?"

"It's the quickest way to get where we need to be. Just wait; you'll see."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe it was just Herring's imagination, but the lobby seemed a lot darker when he came down the main staircase, headed for Douglas' car, than it had on the way in. Standing halfway down the stairs, he turned on the spare flashlight he'd taken from Douglas' car.

He almost ran into the device at the bottom of the staircase, having forgotten that it was even there; Herring now stood before it, flashing the light over its surface. It was not a grandfather clock, as he had thought when he'd seen it on the way in, but some kind of musical device. He recognized the circular plate, positioned beneath a glass pane just above a flat table about halfway down the thing's height, with little pegs sticking up in countless patterns all across the plate's surface. He'd seen a similar device in the clock shop in South Ashfield; he reflected on an occasion on which he had gotten very drunk--that had been the night he'd pledged never to drink alcohol again, a promise he'd kept to this day--and had stumbed into his grandmother's heirloom musical clock, which she had left to him in her will, knocking it to the floor and breaking it in several places. It had been a rare device--the company that had manufactured that particular timepiece had gone out of business almost fifty years prior--so breaking it had made Herring feel very bad. He'd brought it to his buddy Bill, who'd owned the clock shop in South Ashfield, and had been told that it would take several hundred dollars to find the parts required to fix it. Herring had responded that he wouldn't be able to afford that, so Bill had cut him a break--he'd kept it for a few days and managed to reconstruct the mechanism of the music box using junk parts from other broken devices he normally kept in the back of the store, and he'd only charged Herring twenty bucks for the effort. Yeah, Herring had really liked Bill; they'd been very close friends since as far back as high school. So Herring had been all the more crushed when, two weeks after the fact, he'd been called to the clock shop by a bystander who, upon Herring's arrival, would report to him that Bill had been stabbed to death by a screwdriver. His heart had been removed, his chest skillfully sewn back up, and the name "Walter Sullivan" carved on his back. That, and "09/21."

Herring shook his head, dispelling the memory. All it did was make him feel worse for letting the bastard get away; he'd _had _him, they'd finally _had _him, the _real deal,_ not the drop guy they'd caught before but the real, in-the-flesh Walter Sullivan...and he'd let him get away. He supposed that, if Douglas were here right now, he'd try to take some of the responsibility for that, but in the end, Herring would only blame himself. He'd _never _let anyone escape from him like that, not once in his entire career. Until now.

He finally exited the building through the front door, realizing that he had wasted several precious minutes daydreaming. There had been something about that music box clock that had resonated with him, had actually seemed to cast a spell on him--an unpleasant feeling.

The passenger-side door was unlocked, and Herring thanked himself for this negligent behavior, for if it _hadn't_ been unlocked, he would've had to backtrack up to where Douglas and Heather waited and get the keys. Perhaps if he'd done that, just stopped there and gone back to them, things would have turned out differently.

He leaned in, squirmed across the seats to the driver's side, popped the trunk open by pulling the lever under the seat, and squirmed back out. The leather seats'd had time to grow very cold since he, Douglas and Heather had gone inside; without the function of the seatwarmers, the night chill had overtaken the car in a flash.

Herring rounded the car and opened the trunk. Inside was a small red case, about the size the glovebox might have been, had it been removable. Herring seized it--it was much heavier than it looked, but thankfully he was still able to lift it using only his good right hand--and started back towards the front of the hotel.

That was when he heard them.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What _is_ that?" Heather said, standing up so quickly that she almost toppled over.

"What's what?" Douglas asked, steadying her with his free hand. With the other, he was toying with his lighter--he didn't want to smoke here in this closed space out of consideration for Heather, but his nerves were starting to act up. Soon, he didn't think he would care one way or the other what Heather thought about him smoking.

"That noise," Heather said indignantly, as if Douglas had asked her what she meant by "is." "Don't you hear it? It's like a..."

"A siren," Douglas said. He could hear it now. "An air-raid siren, maybe?"

"I don't like it," she said. "It's creepy."

"I second that," Douglas said. "I wonder who's sounding it? And where it's coming from?"

"I think we should get out of here," Heather said.

"What?"

"Something bad's coming," Heather said, whining. "Can't you feel it?"

Before Douglas could answer, the ground began to tremble beneath his feet.

"No," Heather said. "Not again!"

Douglas tripped over his own feet, slamming into Heather and knocking them both to the ground. He barely had time to cry _oof!_ before the ground knocked the wind out of him.

Heather screamed.

"It's okay," Douglas said, rolling off of her and helping her up. "It's just me, I tripped. I'm sorry."

But Heather wasn't paying attention; she was just shouting the same thing, over and over and over again: "No, not again! Not again!"

_Dammit, Herring,_ Douglas thought. _Yeah, nothing's gonna happen _myass.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sirens tore through the night air, covering all other sounds, seeming to drown them out of existence. Herring's footsteps made no sound; his cries of _What the hell? _bore no vibrations. There was only that torrential noise, that overpowering siren, sweeping over the town in waves of terrible energy, causing the very ground beneath him to quake from their might.

Herring flashed his light towards the hotel. It flickered on, blinked rapidly as if it were losing power, and clicked off, leaving Herring in almost total darkness. But Herring had seen all he'd needed to see.

During the moment when the light had been trained on the front of the building, he'd seen the wood shifting _phasing_, becoming inconsistant. It was changing...but into what?

"James," Herring muttered. Lugging the toolcase, he ran towards the building. He had to get back to Douglas and Heather and unlock that door, pronto. He wasn't sure why, but this new strangeness had convinced Herring beyond the shadow of a doubt that Room 312 did, indeed, contain what they were looking for. He was sure that this act was an interference of James'; it _had _to be. Maybe he was altering the physical consistency of his world, to prepare for the slaughter which would surely ensue if Herring didn't move fast enough.

Just as he reached the front door, the sirens began to descend in volume, and Herring was able to hear the sounds his feet made on the grass: _clank, clank, clank._

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas watched with a fusion of helpless terror and blind, frustrated rage as the room changed shape around him, carpet phasing into porous metal grates, wooden walls bleeding dark red liquid that pooled at their bases, caking itself into every crevice. The darkness in the room seemed to grow heavier, become more solid, like a physical mass, perhaps some kind of gelatin. Looking down, he realized that he couldn't even see the second floor through this one--it seemed to have dropped out of existence. Down there, it was only blackness.

Douglas' flashlight grew much fainter and began to flicker, as if it were having trouble operating in this new environment.

Soon, the sirens began to abate, gradually becoming less prominent, until at last they were audible no more.

Douglas kept his arm tightly wrapped around Heather's shoulders.

"We're there again," Heather asked meekly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Aren't we?"

"I think so," Douglas said. "I'm not..." he looked at what had once been the door to Room 312, and saw that the numerical plate had been replaced with what looked like an awfully realistic depiction of a smiling, toothy grin. It was only a depiction--it _had _to be, for it was so perfectly square, and the face to which it would presumably belong, had it been real, was nowhere to be seen--but all the same, it made Douglas very uncomfortable. He lead Heather away from it, down the hall a ways.

"You're not what?" Heather asked.

"I'm not sure if this is the same place as before," Douglas continued. "It's similar, but...it's also different, somehow."

"What do you mean?" she said. She sounded worried--which was totally understandable.

"I mean, it feels different," Douglas said, taking a step down the hallway. His boot made an unpleasantly solid _clank _on the new flooring. "The other place...I can't exactly describe it. It feels more like..."

"Like _James,_" Heather said, disgusted. The way she'd said the man's name reminded Douglas of those campaign commercials he always saw on TV back in Ashfield, around time for local public office elections--"Here's candidate A, the kind, caring, conservative individual...and _here's _Candidate _B,_ the _liberal junkie _who supports _lessening _the _penalties _on _adults over 18 _who carry up to an _ounce _of _Marijuana._"

"Yes," Douglas had to agree. "Like James."

"He's here," Heather said.

"I know."

"He's going to kill us."

"No," Douglas said. "No, he won't. This isn't over yet."

"It will be soon."

To that, Douglas couldn't say nothing. He didn't want to leave such an open-ended statement out in the air like that, but really...it _would_ be over soon, wouldn't it? It was just down to a question of...for _whom?_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Herring stood in the lobby of this horrible new place, this place that couldn't _possibly _be the same hotel he'd just come out of, with Douglas' red toolkit still clasped in his hand. He'd gotten his flashlight to work again by beating on it (thank _God _for small favors) and had hung it around his neck by the string connected to the back. This way, he could tilt the flashlight by turning his body.

The lobby--if this was, indeed, the same lobby--had undergone some drastic changes. There was no longer a floor; only a long metal bridge, about six feet wide, that extended from the main entrance to the place that had once been the main staircase--instead of the stairs, which seemed to have been completely removed, there was simply a grand metallic double-door on the far wall. Several feet above the door, a long, similarly metal balcony ran left-to-right across the room.

To either side of the metal bridge, the floor ceased to exist, turning into a steep drop. Herring had no idea what might be down there, and he had no desire to find out; he couldn't even see the bottom from here.

"Douglas?" he called, oh-so-carefully crossing the bridge towards the grand door, hoping that nothing too sinister waited for him inside. He wished like hell that he could use his left hand to draw his gun; with it, he would've felt so much safer. But he could barely move the damn thing, much less control it to the extent required to operate a firearm. He could only keep moving, and see what happened.

And hope that Douglas and Heather were alright.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry could only watch--rather, _stare--_in disgust as the transformation took place. It started with the glass window; the panes shattered, blowing out into the night, and the frames grew dull and rustic, experiencing years of decay right before Henry's eyes. The decay continued to spread, turning the papers on the desk into crusty, blood-stained rags and the desk itself into something so horribly damaged (from some liquid, presumably water) that it looked like it might fall apart if one _looked_ at it too hard. It covered the floors, turning the absurdly clean carpet into a filthy metallic grate. The bookshelves began to lean slightly, as if from severe disuse, and the ceiling splintered in several places. The walls began to bleed a hideous reddish-black substance that fell down to the floor in thick streams, drying only seconds later to leave a horribly stained motif.

"Welcome to my world," James said. Henry wasn't sure if that was a joke, or an ominous remark.

"What...what is _this?_" Henry asked, horrified. "What did you do?"

"That's just it," James said. "I didn't do a thing. _She _did."

"_Who _did?"

"My Center," he said cryptically. "Nothing for you to worry about. I know this place like the back of my hand. It's been nothing short of my second home for a long time."

"You _live _here?"

"Not really," James said, rising to his feet. He hefted his shouldered rifle up and started for the door, brushing past Henry. "Now come on. They probably won't be able to reach one another now, but I wouldn't take advantage of that. They're a resourceful bunch."

"Who?" Henry followed, but not quite as closely as he had earlier. This was obviously no ordinary man, and for reasons other than his size. "Who are you talking about?"

"The cop," James said. "The cop and his entourage. They're very close. I almost got one of them before, but..."

Henry waited to see if the man would continue.

"In any case," he said, dropping his train of thought, "they won't be getting away now. Come on."

Henry didn't like the way this guy was leading him around; he had the air of a police officer training a rookie, and that was one air Henry could have done very well without. He didn't want to have any more to do with this guy and his crazy world than he had to.

James opened the door and lead Henry back down the hallway--which had also undergone some drastic changes. As with the window in the previous room, the one at this end of the hall had been shattered outward, and a thick mist had begun to drift in from outside. Henry found that he couldn't breathe the stuff; one breath sent him into a fit of coughing that was almost alarming.

"Are you okay?" James asked, turning back.

"I'm fine, thanks," Henry said, catching his breath. He turned, following James once more.

At the end of the hall, James turned right. The floor of the entire hotel must have been replaced by that metal grate, for it looked like the new predominant theme. That, and the walls, which were no longer stucco but a layered wood that looked almost like incredibly thick blinds, stained with that dark reddish-black substance that wasn't quite blood. The motif made Henry think of some kind of Asian home design--it had that distinct look he could not otherwise identify.

James opened the grand door at the end of the hall--which looked to have suffered severe water damage at some point--and stepped out onto some kind of balcony area, with Henry not far behind. There were no other exits, and the balcony looked down over a vast pit. The only thing that would be able to stop one from falling right over the edge was a narrow railing, about four or five feet high.

Below, a single tiny strip of metal, no more than a few feet wide, ran from some point a ways below the balcony to another such point, far off in the distance. It was impossible to tell where the road ended, for the darkness in here had become so oppressive as to limit visibility to about fifteen feet.

"I can't see a thing," Henry said. "Do you have a light?"

"Yes, actually," James said. He reached into his coat and produced a black camping flashlight. He clicked it on. "But we won't be needing it. Not for what I have planned."

"And what's that?" Henry rested his arms on the railing, trying to stay calm. He was appalled at this scenery...but at the same time, it wasn't all that much worse than the Other Walter's had been. He attempted to use this single distant familiarity to ease himself into the world of which he was now unwillingly a part.

"Well, the cop and his partner each have a flashlight--"

"There's two of them?" Henry asked, intrigued.

James paused, obviously irritated. "Yes, there are two of them. Actually, three." He cleared his throat. "Anyway. Each of them has a flashlight. They'll probably be using them for most of their time here. They still think they have a chance against Her."

Henry regarded James. "What do you mean?"

James shrugged. "I figured it would be pretty obvious to them. This place is mine, and it always has been. My Center is here. She protects me with Her Light."

Henry's eyebrows rose up. "What 'light' is that? And who's this 'she?'"

James jerked his head towards Henry, his eyebrows narrowed. "Are you mocking Her?"

"No!" Henry said, raising one hand up in front of him. "No, not at all! I'm actually curious."

Henry felt a lot more at ease when he saw James ease back a little bit. "She is the Center of my universe, my life, my everything. She is the only one I live for now. She taught me the way to live. She showed me everything that I was doing wrong."

"Does she have a name?" Henry asked.

There was a long silence in that room, amidst the darkness. Then, James finally answered. "Yes, she does. But it's been so long since I've heard it spoken out loud."

"What is it?"

"She's forbidden me to say."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm not worthy. Not anymore."

"I don't understand."

James leaned back against the wall, unshouldering his rifle and resting it against the railing, and sighed. "There was a time when I was more like you. I can never say I was "pure," but I wasn't the way I am now. I had a life. I had a _wife._"

_I do not want green eggs and ham, I do not want them, Sam I am._ Lines he'd spoken during his mental breakdown, earlier that week in Room 302, lines that, for some odd reason, had chosen to recur to him at this moment.

"But one day, I did something unforgiveable. I justified it to myself, I had it all worked out so it made sense, so I was in the right...but I wasn't. That's what I should've seen, but didn't. That's why I'm still paying to this day."

"What did you do?" Henry asked. "If you don't mind my asking?"

"I killed her," he said. His voice had grown cold. "I killed my wife."

Henry didn't respond.

"You probably want to know why," James said. "Don't you? You think I'm insane. I'm sick. Or something else."

"Well, I want to know, yes," Henry said.

James eyed Henry. "You act so naive...and yet you seem so sincere. I understand now why you're the Receiver."

Henry didn't know how to respond to that, but he filed it away for later study anyway.

"My wife wasn't the only one I killed. I killed a man, too, someone I didn't even know. And I justified _that_ to myself. I did a lot of terrible things in that life. I did terrible things, and I hid my guilt under the disguise of 'getting over it.'"

Henry remained quiet, observant. He was waiting...waiting for what he wanted to hear.

"This town called me. I came here, looking for her, my wife. I should've known that I could never find her again. Not in that life. I didn't know at first, but I learned eventually. I learned that I had to do another extravagant thing if I ever wanted to see her again. She gave me that chance; She offered me a condition. I accepted it without question, because I knew that I had been wrong to kill her."

"Is this person...this Center...is 'She' your wife?"

James' face twisted. "No, I don't think so."

"What do you mean?" Henry asked. "You're not sure?"

"I don't know what She is, and I don't care. She's given me all that I need. She's explained everything to me so that I understand it. I'm thankful for what She's given me, and I don't question Her. That's Her condition."

"The condition she gave you...to see your wife again?"

"Yes. She's given me so much--more than I could ever have asked for--and all She asks in return is my unconditional love, trust, and respect."

Henry pondered that in silence.

"And now, She's told me what I need to do. And I'm going to do it."

"What's that?"

"Kill the cop," James said matter-of-factly.

"You're going to _kill _him?" Henry took his hands off the rail.

"Yes," James said. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Henry hesitated. He _did,_ but...he wasn't sure if letting on to that would be the wisest decision. "Well...I mean, do you know _why?_ Maybe there's some other--"

"No!" James said. "There is _no _other way. She told me. And if She says so, then so be it."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas and Heather stood on the third floor, directly in front of the "staircase" Herring had used to travel to the lower floors. The problem was, it wasn't exactly _there _anymore. There was only a hole, which dropped down an endless distance.

"It must have disappeared when everything changed," Douglas said.

"Then how do we get down?" Heather said. "We've got to hope that Herring got those tools...wait!"

"What?"

"Is there any way you can shoot the lock off?" Heather asked, miming a handgun motion. "Maybe if we can get in 312, we can change everything back to normal."

"Nope," Douglas said. "The doorknob's gone. It's just a crack in the wall, now." He glanced back at the door, whose numerical plate had been replaced by that odd mouth. No hinges, no knob, no anything. Just that weird mouth. He didn't even think the tools would do any good. Not now. That was part of why he was so sure James was behind all of this--if his treasure really _was _in there, then he might have somehow sensed that they were getting closed to it and summoned this "change," to make the room inaccessible.

Now, his only real worry was what had happened to Herring. He couldn't stop thinking about the abyss underneath him. Had the lower floors just...ceased to exist? Could it be that Herring had been walking along the ground, minding his own business, and...whoosh, there goes the floor, down goes the Herring?

"No," he whispered. "I don't believe that." Herring was a hell of a cop; he wouldn't have--_couldn't_ have--perished so easily.

"What?" Heather asked.

"Nothing," he lied. "Let's try the elevator. Maybe it'll work."

"Sure," Heather said, though he could feel her trembling with terror beneath his touch. Which was understandable--this place was messed-up enough if you _could_ see, but if you couldn't, well, then your imagination could see it for you. And oftentimes, that was _so _much worse. He felt sorry for Heather.

Leading her down the hallway, he observed that the ceiling-mounted light fixtures had become strange metal scaffold-like shapes, the purpose of which was unknown. Also, all of the doors had become mere outlines, set into the wall. There was no visible way to open any of them. But strangest of all, none of them besides 312 bore that human mouth-shape. They were all just blank reddish-brown metal planks, approximately the size of a door, set into the wall.

_Clank-clank-clank._ Their shoes on the ground.

Douglas reached the elevator and pressed the call button, having already decided to go down to the first floor Herring hadn't been gone but a couple of minutes--he had probably still been on the first floor when the change had occurred. Either that, or out of the building entirely.

The doors opened with a surprisingly pleasant _ding,_ which could not have seemed more out of place than it did right now. Douglas started to move into the open elevator...and recoiled, crying out with disgust.

A wheelchair occupied the back left-hand corner of the cab (which was probably big enough to hold about four people), blood-stained and riddled with pock-marks that looked suspiciously like bullet-holes. But the chair itself was not what had disgusted Douglas so--rather, the body _in _the chair. It was that of a human, gender indeterminate, who was wearing some kind of biohazard suit--it looked like the kind the HazMat teams used in the military--but the area from the neck to the middle of the shins had been stripped all the way to the bone. The removed flesh was nowhere to be seen. The floor was coated with several millimeters of blood, some of it dried...some of it still wet.

"What is it?" Heather asked with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity.

"No...nothing," Douglas said. "Just...come on."

Against his better judgement, he ushered Heather into the elevator with him. This was the only way they were going to get anywhere, disgusting as it might be.

"Don't move," he said, and pressed the _1 _button. The doors slid shut, filling Douglas with an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and tried to shake off the almost hallucinatory urge to believe that the body was somehow coming to life behind him, reaching out for him, coming to get him, the sensation that, for just one second, he swore he could feel both of Heather's hands on him, plus a _third_ hand, coming up from--

_Ding!_

Douglas barked a cry of terror, startling Heather.

"What? What is it?"

"Nothing," Douglas said. "Sorry, I'm...I'm a little jumpy." His movements as he hurried Heather out of the elevator cab gave evidence to this fact. "Come on, let's find Herring."

The hall on the first floor was far darker than the one on the third; Douglas could barely even see the floor. His flashlight had grown so dim (and the darkness so thick) that he could only see any given part of the room if he focused the flashlight directly on it. If he didn't find a way out of here soon, he feared, the light was going to quit working altogether, and then they'd be stuck like this.

Douglas shivered.

The hallway didn't go very far to the right; it ended abruptly in a long drop, where the metal floor seemed to have been twisted right apart, the way a child might twist a piece of cotton candy away from the center of the mass. The floor curled up and slightly off to the right, where it ended in a series of jagged rips.

To the left, however, Douglas could see the path going on for a ways into the darkness and then turning right. He had no idea if it would end in a similar drop, trapping them here until further notice, but there was only one way to find out.

_Here goes,_ he thought, and started down the path, turning the corner.

"Where are we going?" Heather asked.

"I have no idea," Douglas said...and _that _was the truth.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The grand door at the end of the metal bridge had opened onto a T-shaped hallway, with a pair of narrow corridors running left-to-right and a single, much wider corridor proceeding straight ahead for about fourty feet. It was much darker in here than in the other room, he noticed--but how was that possible? There had been no light source, other than the flashlight, in the previous area. How could it get darker than total darkness?

"I've had enough of this mind-bending crap," Herring said, setting the tool box down with a _clunk._ The tools inside jingled harmoniously. "Douglas? Heather? Anybody? Hello?"

Nothing.

"Dammit," he said, flicking his wrist. He wasn't going to be able to drag the toolkit around forever; his hand was starting to cramp up. "This is one screwed-up place, yessir," he said, looking around at the scenery. The walls had become stained--in effect, _ruined--_with some substance that looked a lot _like _blood, but probably wasn't, as the color it had dried into was much darker and more consistent. The floor in here was just like the one in the "lobby." The only thing missing was--

Wait, no. There it was. A body, hanging upside-down from some kind of chain and surrounded by what appeared to be a tall, awkward _birdcage_, just over the door through which he'd come.

"Oh, my God," Herring said, setting the toolkit down once again. He stepped in for a closer look. "Oh, God, what is this? Who _did_ this?"

The body was either that of a mature adult or a freakishly large child; it was not quite six feet tall, blonde with short hair, and rather plump, though not fat--the bulk seemed to be a result of some kind of bloating effect. The large green coat and thick blue jeans it wore probably contributed to its bulk, but not by much. Dirty, expensive-looking brown shoes hung from its limp feet. The limbs--wrists, ankles, and neck--were bound and pulled taut by filthy chains, reddish-brown things that looked ready to fall apart. The eyes were glazed over, thick with the visage of death and probably still preoccupied with the last thing they had seen before their owner had finally croaked. One of the arms had been forced through one of the narrow gaps in between the birdcage-structure, as if it had been reaching for help. On that arm, the jacket had been pulled back to the middle of the bicep, and the arm was bleeding from the wrist up to the point at which the jacket provided cover. This man had been struggling for life, trying to escape, and he must've gotten stuck.

"Holy _mackarel,_" Herring said, spouting the ludicrous catch phrase for the first time since high school. "Holy God-damned _mackarel._" He couldn't take his eyes off of the body; it was horrible, but it had struck him with such horrified awe--it was so damn _bizarre!_--that he didn't know how to react. He didn't know how this would affect him in the years to come, other than the fact that it would surely haunt his sleep.

That was when he realized who it was.

"_Holy mother of--_"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"_Holy mother of--_"

Douglas heard the cry, and recognized the voice's owner. "Herring?"

There was a long pause. Then: "Douglas? Is that you?"

Heather smiled. "It's him! He's okay!"

"Yeah, it's me!" Douglas called back, grinning with relief himself. "And Heather! Where are you?"  
"I have no clue," Herring responded. "But I think you need to see this."

"What?" Douglas called. He was almost jogging Heather down the hallway now, trying to contain his excitement to accomodate her ailment. "What is it?"

"I can't even describe it," Herring said.

"Shine your light around," Douglas said. "So I can see where you are."  
Sure enough, up at the end of the path, Douglas could see a little spot of bright light, darting around on the ground. He quickly approached the spot...and came to a black metal grate, thick and impassable. "Damnit!"

"What is it?" Herring's voice drifted from across the room, on the other side of the bars. He came towards the sound of his partner's voice.

"Stuck," Douglas said, tapping the bars. "We can't get in."

"Nuh-_uh!_" Herring said, frustrated. "We're so close!"

"Look around in there," Douglas said. "Maybe there's a way to open it."

"Yeah," Herring said, snapping his fingers. He darted out of sight.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas and Heather were trapped in the passage to the left of the grand door through which Herring had entered. Near the double-doors at the far end of the wider corridor, Herring found an object that might or might not have had anything to do with their current situation: a tiny indentation into the wall that looked like it might have previously been a call button of some sort, perhaps for an elevator, or maybe to trigger an alarm or something. But the button was missing, leaving only a very narrow indentation--too wide to fit his hand into, and too deep for his finger to reach.

"Find anything?" Douglas' voice echoed from across the room.

"A thing," Herring said. "It's a little tiny hole. Looks like it might be a button, or something, but I can't reach into it. It's too narrow!"

"Do you have the toolkit?" Heather said. "Maybe there's something in there?"

_Heather,_ Herring thought at her, _you're a God-damned genius!_ He returned to where he had dropped the toolkit, in the center of the room, and opened it. Immediately inside was a single insert, housing a series of wrenches varying widely in size, shape, and application. Herring carefully removed this insert, setting it on the ground beside the case, and observed the contents of the one below: Screwdrivers.

"Here we go," Herring said, plucking the smallest one from the collection. He recognized it as one that he'd borrowed from Douglas years ago, to help fix one of Nina's little giga-pet things. He rushed to the indentation in the wall and slid the screwdriver in, carefully, so as not to break it off inside--it was a thin little guy. He finally felt the tip of it press against the switch, and then a deep, low vibration spread throughout the room.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas patted Heather heartily on the back. "It's working!"

The door was grinding in its frame, sliding upward into some mysterious cavity thanks to some equally mysterious machinery. Why would someone have put a button on the _opposite_ side of the room from the door it controlled?

_Doesn't matter, _Douglas thought. _I'm just glad it works._

But it didn't work, not all the way. The door screeched to a stop about halfway up the track.

"Damn it," Douglas said. "Come on, Heather. You're going to have to crawl under."

"What about you?" she asked, resisting him.

"I'll follow you," he said. "What else?"

She smirked at him, but allowed him to help her to a kneeling position. He guided her as best he could, allowing her to pass under the door. Herring was there to meet her on the other side and help her to her feet.

"You next, big guy," Herring said. "Hurry up, before it malfunctions or something."

Douglas dropped into a stance one might normally associate with doing push-ups, and then placed his palms on the floor on the other side of the door and dragged himself under the grate. He rose to his feet on the other side, cracking his back as he did so. "I'm gonna want to wash these clothes real, real good when I get home," he said.

"Tell me about it," Heather said, holding her hands up above her as if she were afraid to touch herself. "I got something sticky all over me."  
Neither Douglas nor Herring opted to inform her that said sticky substance was most likely blood--either that, or the reddish-black stuff that wasn't quite blood.

"Dear God," Douglas whispered, observing the form of the chained man in the birdcage-thing. "Is this what you were talking about?"

"Yep," Herring said. "I don't know if it means anything or not, but...I really think it just might."

"What is it?" Heather asked.

Douglas and Herring shared an uncomfortable look.

"Come on!" she whined. "Tell me!"

"It's...James," Douglas said. "At least, I think it is. It _looks _like him, but...smaller, somehow." He wanted to say _younger,_ too, but it was impossible to tell--the skin was too badly bruised and decayed.

Heather gasped, covering her mouth with one greasy hand.

"What?" Douglas asked.

"This must be..." she trailed off.

"This must be what?" Herring asked.

"I think this is the place," Heather said. "This is where he keeps it."

"Who?" Douglas said, irate. "Who keeps what? What are you talking about?"  
"Are you sure it's James?" Heather asked.

"Pretty sure," Herring confirmed. "That green coat looks a lot like the one our pal favors."

"What does it look like?"

"Twisted," Douglas said. "Tied up, twisted like a pretzel. Stuck in some kind of cage. One arm sticking through, bloody, with torn flesh. Like he was trying to get out."

Heather let out a long, low breath, as if she were preparing herself to do--or say--something unpleasant. "Guys, I think _that's _the real James."

"What?" Herring and Douglas said in unison. It was beginning to seem like that was the Chosen Word of the Day.

"Are you saying that our pal Green Coat Man _isn't_ the 'real' James?" Herring said. "Because he felt pretty damn real when he shoved that sword through my arm."

"Not entirely," Heather said. "I mean, he's James' _mind,_ and James' _emotions,_ but...it's not _all _of him. This must be what's left of the real James. The James that existed before he performed the ritual."

"I don't understand," Herring said. "You're saying that he died, or something, when he performed that ritual? The one that gave him this world? But that doesn't make sense!"

"Part of him did die, yes," Heather agreed, ignoring his criticism. "The part of him that would interfere with the consequences of the ritual."

Douglas eyed Heather uncertainly. He was beginning to wonder some things about her, things that he was not entirely comfortable wondering. "How do you know all of this?"

Heather looked startled. "Stanley and Mark. I already explained this to you."

"Not this part," he said.

"I personally don't _care _what's going on here," Herring said. "I just want it to be over. What do you guys say we hit the high road, huh?"

"We haven't found James' treasure yet," Heather contested.

"There's no guarantee that it's even here, for one," Douglas said. "And second of all, where could we look here--what could we do--that we haven't already?"

Heather frowned.

"I know you don't like the idea," Herring said, "but I don't think there's anything for us here. We should try looking at that other place you talked about--that Museum."

Heather didn't respond for a long time. Then, at last, she sighed. "I guess. I just really wanted it to be here. I really wanted to...and it all makes so much sense! James' body being here, and...well, you know--"

"I know," Douglas said. "Whatever we're gonna do, we have to do it fast. We have to get this over with before something crazy happens, and we all end up dead. And the longer we stay here, the more likely that is, especially if James is on his way here."

"Well, first thing's first," Herring spoke up. "I want someone else to carry this toolkit. If not, I'm bringing it back outside."

"We can probably ditch that in the car," Douglas said. "I don't think it'll help us at all."

"Amen to that," Herring agreed. "The leaving it in the car part, that is."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So what did the cop do?"

"What do you mean?" James asked.

"The cop," Henry said. "The one you want to kill. What did he do?"

"I thought I already told you?"

"Well, you said he's been sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. You didn't really specify what that was." He leaned forward against the railing.

"That's bec--" He froze.

"What--"

"_Shh!_" James actually managed to make the sound in a way that was more fearsome than annoying, a feat that, in Henry's experience, was almost impossible. "Listen."

Henry had expected more sirens, or something worse, something crazier..._anything_ but what actually happened next.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Herring held the grand double-doors open so Douglas could escort Heather through, leading her down the path ahead of Herring. It was this lineup that made what happened next so difficult for Douglas to understand: Hehad been in _front_ of Heather. _He _had been the first one who would've been in the way. In a perfect, sane, logical world, it would've been _him _instead.

Of course, in a sane, logical world, it wouldn't have happened to any of them.

"You got that toolkit?" Douglas called back.

"Yeah," Herring said, jingling it. He cringed from the effort applied to his single good hand, and promised it he wouldn't do that again.

"You better," Douglas said, in a good mood already. "It's got the ratchet set my wife gave me for my birthday ten years ago." The mention of his wife brought up a brief but powerful pang of regret deep inside him. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"I'll feel better once we're in the car, driving out of here," Heather said. "I hate being blind and on foot. I just feel safer in a vehicle."

"I'll feel safer once we're on the road, a hundred miles away from this hellhole," Douglas said.

"Amen to that," Heather mocked.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A flashlight beam could be seen bouncing around on the metal bridge below, signifying the arrival of James' "victim."

"Stand back," James said, shouldering his rifle. "I only have one good shot."

Henry felt his stomach churning; could he really just stand here and watch as James killed a man? He didn't know if he could; at the same time, though, he didn't know if it would be right to step in and intervene. Perhaps James had some history with him, something that would at the very least validate his apparent hatred for the guy. In that case, stepping in between them would be like stepping in between two warring gangs--stupid, and a good way to get killed.

It was because these thoughts, concerning the identity of the person to be shot, were running through his head that his heart leapt into his throat when he saw two familiar faces step onto the metal bridge far below the balcony: Detective Cartland and his partner, Officer Herring, plus another person--a girl--whom he'd never seen before.

"I just can't wait," James said. Henry told himself that James was referring to the act of meeting with the mysterious "She" of whom he had spoken, and not to that of murdering a man. He pulled down on the trigger.

"_No!_" Henry shouted, and tackled James.

"_What_?" James fell over, caught entirely by surprise. He dropped his rifle, and Henry caught it just before it would have slid beneath the rails and down into the chasm. Having never aimed a rifle before, he shouldered it incorrectly, aiming at James without lining his eye up with the sight. He leaned over the railing and shouted, "_Detective Cartland_, _run!_"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas' heart sped up tenfold when he heard the voice come from directly over his head: _"Detective Cartland, run!"_ His instinct, of course, was not to obey the warning but to glance up at its source. What he saw both amazed and confused the hell out of him.

It was that lying bastard, Henry--the guy whose room they'd found that body in--holding a rifle. He was holding the weapon awkwardly, as if he'd never used one before, but he didn't seem to be aiming it. Why the warning, then? What was he warning Douglas _of?_

"_Go!_" Henry shouted.

"What's going on?" Herring asked, joining Douglas up on the path. "Who's shouting?"

"I think we need to get out of here, _now,_" Douglas said. "Come on."

"What's happening?" Heather asked, refusing to move. Douglas would have pulled her towards the exit against her will, but he was much too afraid of accidentally knocking her down into the chasm beneath of the bridge.

"Come _on,_" he said, urging Heather onward. At last (thank God) she cooperated, and they were moving.

Herring came up behind Heather, causing her to speed up a little. "Was that you that shouted?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry opened his mouth to shout again, but the wind was knocked out of him before he had the chance; James gripped the barrel of the rifle and pushed with all of his weight, driving the stock up Henry's shoulder and into his throat, bruising the tissue but thankfully not breaking anything. He flew backwards, skidding on his heels from the sheer force of the blow, and fell onto his back, clutching his throat.

"You _moron,_" James said, taking the rifle back by the barrel. He flipped it in his hands as if it were a baton, catching it by the trigger and shouldering it for fire once again. "I'll deal with _you _later."

Henry coughed, trying desparately to scream _Look out!_ But all he could produce was a haggard, raspy noise. He flailed his hands, trying to get the cop's attentions. Thankfully, they were on the move, but--

_BLAM!_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas had almost reached the threshold of the exit door when he heard the rifle report, loud and clear.

_BLAM!_

For a moment he didn't feel anything, although he was sure he'd been hit...but then he realized that the shot had missed. He checked Heather, to make sure she hadn't been hit. Then he turned back towards Herring. "You alright, budd-"

He never got to finish the sentence.

Herring was _not _alright; he was staring at Douglas, a wide-eyed look of horrified recognition on his face. He looked down, saw the bullet wound in his chest, just below the heart...saw the flesh on the ground in front of him...saw the blood streaming down the front of his shirt.

"_No!_" Douglas cried out, dropping Heather. She fell against the door, screaming bloody murder.

"I..." Herring muttered, coughing. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. "I...he..."

"Don't talk," Douglas said, taking Herring's shoulder. "Come on."

"No," Herring spat, along with a wad of blood. "He'll kill you. Go!" He pulled away from Douglas, fell into a sitting position.

"_To hell _with that!" Douglas said, kneeling before him. "Come on! We can still make it!"

"I...sorry, I..." and with that, Herring's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he was gone. His body slumped to one side, right near the edge of the bridge, and the uneven weight distribution was enough to pull him over the edge of the chasm. He fell, fell...fell...and was no more.

Douglas felt a deep, powerful negative emotion sweep over his entire being. For the moment, he forgot that Heather was sitting there like a duck, blind and afraid and helpless; he forgot that there was a maniac with a rifle aimed at him. He forgot about Henry, about Walter, about everything; his life, his companionship with Herring...all of their memories together...flashing before his eyes

(_Hey, nice to meet you)_

_(Nice to meet you, my name's)_

_(Douglas, I'm John. John Herring)_

_(Thinking about joining the force)_

_(You're too much of a wuss)_

_(know, just a songwriter, but still)_

_(Think I could do it? I know I want to)_

_(Getting married. Proposed to her yesterday)_

_(Say cheese!)_

_(Never thought I'd see this day)_

_(How's Nina? And the wife?)_

_(Kidnapped, you've got to help me)_

_(Getting a divorce, she's crazy)_

_(Got custody of Nina, I don't know what I'm gonna do)_

_(Don't worry, John, you've been through worse)_

_(Walter Sullivan, that bastard)_

_(Gonna get him, me and Andy)_

_(No)_

_(No)_

_(No)_

_(NO!!)_

"_NO!!_" Douglas bellowed at the top of his lungs. He didn't even aim; he just started shooting. He pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, four times, five times...seven...eleven...fifteen..._click._

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

James wasn't laughing, as Henry had expected him to, which was part of what made him wonder if he'd done the right thing; he seemed so _sure _of himself.

_So did Walter,_ Henry reminded himself. This James guy was a bona-fide nutjob, without a doubt. Henry knew he had to get out of here, and _fast._ But before he could do more than climb to his knees, he felt himself being lifted off of the ground by the neck of his shirt.

"You _idiot,_" James spat. "You _moron! _Do you have _any idea _what you almost did, just now?"

"I tried to save him," Henry said, coughing.

James punched him in the face so hard, he thought his nose might be broken. It sure as hell was bleeding--he could taste blood already. "The cop has to die. It's the way things are supposed to be. He's the one holding them together. Without him, they'll crack. They'll either die or give up, probably die. But it's better this way, you'll see." He dropped Henry to the ground; Henry's knees hit the cold metal floor with a resounding _crash,_ and he would later wonder if those might not be bruised, too. "Now I've got all of this to deal with. Walter's been reassimilated, and that other cop's been messing with the Father again...and now this, _you._...how can I protect you if you won't let me do my _job?!_"

Henry sat up, regarding James with terrified wonder. "What do you mean, protect?"

James looked down on Henry with eyes that bordered on the brink of furious. "You _still _don't get it yet, do you? You still don't understand what's going on?"

"How _can _I?" Henry shouted, his throat begging him to _shut the hell up_. "Everyone speaks in riddles all the time, everything's crazy, I have no idea what's going on, I thought I was going to die back there...what do you _want_?"

James stared. "What do _I _want? _I _don't want a thing. It's what _She _wants. _She's_ the one who knows everything, sees everything. She appointed me as the Guardian of this place. It's too close to that place, the place on the other side of the Hole. I was one of the only people who ever found the hole. I wasn't _supposed_ to find it; it was pure luck. She said She'd give me everything I wanted, if only I served Her unconditionally. And now that I have what I want, all I want to do is serve Her." He knelt down to Henry's level. "_All I want is to live in peace, to live in servitude to Her. _It's the only way I can ever make up for what I've done. I didn't see that until it was too late."  
Henry wondered. Either this guy had absolutely _no clue _what was going on...or the exact opposite. And if _that _was the case...

_"NO!!_" The sound of Douglas' voice cut off that train of thought. Followed by a series of gunshots--Henry counted fifteen. "No...no!"

Henry looked at James. "You can't believe that _that_ is necessary."

"I can," James said. "It's beyond your ability to understand."

"To hell with that," Henry said. "I don't _want_ to understand. I don't want to understand the rationality where something like that can be seen as okay. Where killing someone in cold blood, in the name of a higher power, is excusable." He felt a frightened, bewildered anger rising in his chest, a feeling quite a bit unlike anything he'd ever felt before. "That's exactly what was wrong with Walter."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," James said. "But in the end, it doesn't matter. You don't have to be sympathetic to my cause. Hell, even _I'm _not entirely sympathetic. But it's the choice I made when I murdered my wife. I resigned myself to this fate. She showed me how to redeem myself, and so I do it. I don't ask any more questions. I know everything I need to know. That's part of what you can't understand--some would say I'm not even human anymore, because I've lost the one thing that all humans, to some degree, have in common, something that beats in all of their hearts--curiosity. I don't wonder how the universe works, because I already know. It's a sad feeling, really, but at the same time it's also joyous. I finally know my purpose in the universe. I can finally carry out what I was meant to do."

In the distance, the sirens were coming back in full force.

"And now, she's calling me," James said. "I have to go back to see her, now that I've done what she's asked. She'll tell me what to do next. Stay out of trouble until then, will you?"

"Wait," Henry said, but his head was starting to throb again. Before long, the sirens had drowned out all other thoughts, and he was left only with his own miserable agony, the agony of defeat, of knowing that he had tried to help sustain the life of a fellow man, a guy who wasn't even really all that bad...and failed, miserably.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Douglas awoke to the sound of soft weeping. Opening his eyes, he found himself lying face-up on the floor in the lobby of the Lakeview Hotel--as it was _supposed_ to look. He rolled over, climbed to his knees, and saw who was crying--Heather, kneeling in the fetal position against the front door, trembling.

"It's fine," Douglas said, rising to his feet. He approached her and knelt before her. "Everything's fine now. We're back here."

"No it's not," she said. "He's dead. Your friend is dead."

The events of the last few minutes came rushing back to him with hellish clarity, and his heart became heavy with sorrow. "Yeah. I know."

"Why?" Heather asked. "It was supposed to be _me._ He died because of _me._"

"No," Douglas said. "Don't say that."

"It's true!" she said. "If you hadn't ever come here looking for me, he would've never gotten involved with this! If I had just died, then this would never have happened!"

Douglas couldn't find the words to console her. And, he realized, with just the slightest bit of self-loathing, he didn't entirely care at the moment. He was tired--emotionally, physically, mentally--and all he wanted to do was go home. Go home, and mourn his friend. Then get on with his life. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn't lie to himself. He just didn't care. He might, later, but for now, all of his emotion was tapped. He was ready to pack up and quit. He was angry, angry at James for taking his friend's life, angry at God for letting this happen, angry at Heather for not telling him the truth yet--he was afraid to find that he no longer entirely trusted Heather. She was hiding something from him; he'd suspected it before, but in that room with James' body, his suspicions had been confirmed: she knew more than she was letting on.

"Come on," he said, taking her hand. "Let's go. Leave this place."

"We've got to go to the Museum," Heather said.

"I know."

"That's where James is," she said. "That's where he stays. It's got to be. It's the only other place."

"I wonder if it will matter if we go at all," Douglas said. "We couldn't find his treasure. He's going to leave us alone now, in all likelihood. He got what he wants." He spat this last with a firey resentment--the only feeling he still thought he had any real connection with.

"You want to kill him," Heather said. "I know you do."

Douglas didn't know what to say. It was true...but...

"I do, to," Heather said. "I want him dead. I want to spit on his corpse. I want to kill him for what he did to him--to Herring--but also for what he did to me." She paused. "But most of all...I just want to see my dad again."

"Don't," Douglas said, irritable. "Just...don't."

But Heather mistook his anger for an attempt to soothe her, and she hugged him.

"Not now," he said coldly, and she stopped. "Let's go. We'll talk later."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's been a dark night for our friends (in more ways than one), and things have taken a turn for the worse...but there's still one last leg of the journery, one final tale to be told, and it's not going to be a happy one. A terrible seed has been planted, and only time will tell whether it will come to fruit in the following chapters. One brilliant man said it better than I ever could--"As is usually the case, when a friendship breaks as suddenly and violently as this one has, the remainder of the story tends to be quick, painful, and relentless--something you, Reader, should come to expect in these darkest hours, these last chapters."

See You In The Next One--**72**

END OF CHAPTER 27

**END OF PART II**


	28. Sacrament

**PART III: IN THE BACK OF BEYOND**

**Chapter 28: Sacrament**

_"The world is a sick machine_

_Breeding a mass of shit_

_With such a desolate conclusion_

_Fill the void with...I don't care..."_

"Panic Song," _Green Day_

_(Insomniac)_

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Henry awoke to a creaking sound, resounding and all-too-present. It tore through his head in a wave, shuddering his entire body. He felt like he had the worst hangover ever.

At first his vision was foggy; he was unable to register exactly where he was--in the normal Lakeview Hotel, or in that crazy other place. After his eyes adjusted to the new lighting (for this place did, indeed, have lighting independent from his own portable flashlight), he saw that he was sitting right at the top of the main staircase, in the lobby. His back was to the wooden railing, both obscuring the main entrance from his view and obscuring _him_ from anyone who might use said entrance. It was not until he heard the familiar voice of the detective that he felt his heart begin to race.

"There's something I need to know," Cartland said, to whom Henry didn't know. Probably the girl he'd been holding onto when the cop had been shot--

_The cop!_ Henry thought. _I wonder what happened to him?_ He rose quickly to his feet, glancing around the lobby...but he saw no body. Perhaps the detective had moved it?

_Or perhaps it's not there to be moved, anymore,_ a voice in the back of Henry's mind suggested. _Maybe when it fell into that pit, it stayed in that weird other world._ But that only lead to other, stranger possibilities--perhaps, in the other world, his body had fallen down the hole...and then, once everything had turned back to normal, his body had re-appeared somewhere down on the lower floors of the "real" hotel--wherever the bottom of that chasm might lead to.

He recalled the strange black matter he'd seen down in the basement, and wondered if that strange orange place was what had awaited at the bottom of the chasm. That lake of black matter. He shook his head, refusing to consider it any further--the thought of the officer's body slowing abruptly for a moment and then being consumed by the black matter was too much to bear. He could only hope that the guy hadn't still been alive when the immersion had occurred, if indeed it had.

"Hey," Henry called across the lobby, trying to catch Cartland's attention...but his throat was still incredibly sore. His reflexes prevented him from speaking above a scratchy whisper. "Hey, over here!"

The detective had already lead the girl through the lobby doors. Henry could see their figures through the splintered wood. He _had _to catch up to them.

He began his awkward, stumbling descent down the staircase.

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"What?" Heather asked, responding to the detective's statement. They were outside, now; she could feel the frozen wind brushing past her face, dulling what senses she had left. It had gotten much colder since they'd gone inside; she hoped the heater in Douglas' car worked, because this weather was almost too much to bear.

Douglas didn't answer right away; he unlocked the front passenger door, seated Heather inside, went around to the driver's side, unlocked his own door, and sat down beside her. When at last he did respond, Heather didn't like what she heard: "How did you know that?"

"Know what?" Heather said. But she thought she knew what he meant; dread crept up around her heart like the darkness had done around the hotel.

"You know _exactly_ what I mean," Douglas said. "How did you know about that 'real James' deal? How did you know that?"

"I'm not sure what you--"

"_Don't play dumb with me,_" Douglas said, teeth clenched. "I'm not the same guy you used to know. Yes, I felt obligated to come here, but I'm not going to blindly throw myself in harm's way for you, not when I don't even know what I'm fighting for."

"What are you saying?" Heather asked. She thought she felt tears brimming at the corners of her...well...she wasn't exactly sure how that would work if she started to cry, just that she was about to do so.

"I want the truth," Douglas said. "Complete. Unabridged. Right now. Before we go _anywhere._"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Heather said, with the tone of one who has been accused of a terrible crime of which she may or may not be guilty.

"Yes, you do," Douglas said. "I want the whole story, right now. Stanley, Mark, the ritual...all of it. I want to know everything you know."

"I already _told _you everything," Heather said. "Mark came to me, and told me about what Stanley said. He told me about James, and about the ritual. That's it!"

"Herring died for this," Douglas said. The words pierced Heather's heart like an icepick. "He didn't even have to, but he did. He died because we were following your directions, and--"

Heather was sitting, open-mouthed, unable to react.

"I'm sorry," he said, realizing that he had pushed quite a bit too far. "I didn't mean that. But...you can't keep lying to me. You can't keep whatever it is you're keeping from me. As long as you are, you're putting my life in danger. And..."

"And what?" Heather said, her voice dry and cracked.

"Well," Douglas said, as if unsure how to proceed, "I'm not entirely sure I _want_ to carry out whatever it is you're planning."

"What?" Heather asked, shocked. "You don't want to stop James? He'll _kill_ you, and me, just like he did to Mr. Herring!"

"I want to stop James," Douglas said. "I was talking about the _other _thing you're planning. This deal with your father."

Heather had nothing further to contribute in that direction.

"I want to know what it is you're up to."

"I'm not 'up to' anything," Heather insisted. "Mark said that there might be a possibility of...that my dad never really died. He says this town does weird things to people. He says that maybe my dad's death was an illusion, or something--that he might still be here, somewhere, in need of my help." She turned her head towards Douglas, an act that set his nerves off. It was weird, the way she seemed to be looking him in the eyes even though she _had _no eyes through which to look. "I can't refuse that possibility, as long as it's there. I have to either confirm it...or refute it."

"But you don't think it's refutable," Douglas said. "You think he's really here. You think you're going to find him, alive and well."

Heather was silent.

"And what if you do?" Douglas said. "What if you _do _find him? What will you do?"

"That depends," Heather said.

"On what?"  
"On the conditions," she said. "The situation. I don't know what it will be like. I don't even know what to look for--my nerves are shot. I'm wandering across this town, trying to find my father, and I don't even know what to look for. I won't ever be able to forgive myself if he really _is _alive, and I never can find him. If he dies again--for real--because of me."

Douglas wanted to say something to her--wanted _so badly_ to reach over and say something to her, to put her worries to rest--but he was beginning to view her reactions towards her father not as genuine emotion, but a tactic used to tranquilize Douglas, to keep him from being angry at her. He was getting a vibe, like she was trying to change the direction of the conversation to suit her own desires. And Douglas did not appreciate that, not one bit.

"Tell me about the ritual," Douglas said.

"What?"  
"The one James did," he elaborated. "The 'Ressurection of the Dead' ceremony. Tell me about it. You seem to know an awful lot about it."

Heather's face shifted--she was obviously conflicted--but then she opened her mouth to speak.

Before she had gotten a word out, she was cut off by another voice--loud, but scratchy and weak, as if its owner were on his or her last legs.

"Detective Cartland!"

Douglas and Heather both jerked their heads towards the source of the voice--the front of the Lakeview Hotel and Resort.

"Please," the man said, stumbling out from the hole in the main doors. "You've got to help me. Walter, he's--"

"Walter?" Douglas muttered...and that was when he recognized the voice's owner. "Heather, stay in the car."

"What are you--"

"I'll be right back," Douglas said, opening the door with his left hand and drawing his gun with his right. "Just stay in the car." The ensuing _SLAM!_ of the car door caused Heather to flinch.

"Detective," Henry said, stumbling towards the vehicle. "Something's gone really wrong here. Walter's gone, and--"

"Put your hands on the car," Douglas said, pointing his gun at Henry.

"--that crazy guy with the rifle...what?"

"Put them on the car, _now,_" Douglas said. "It's been a long day. You don't want to mess with me right now."

Henry only stood there, eyes wide with disbelief.

"_Put them on the car," _Douglas said. "You're under the arrest for the murders of Peter Wolls, Sharon Blake, Toby Archiboldt, Joseph Schrieber, Cynthia Velasquez, Jasper Gein, Andrew DeSalvo and Richard Braintree."

"_What?_" Henry said, starting to back away. "I didn't kill those people! Listen, detective--"

"If you don't get your hands on the hood of my car right now," Douglas said dryly, "I'm going to make you, right here."

Henry regarded the detective with both fear and some level of contempt. At last, he put his hands on the vehicle...but not because he was ready to admit guilt. He had probably decided that it was the best thing for their current situation--he didn't look to be in any condition to run away, and he _certainly_ didn't seem to want to be shot.

"I am arresting you on behalf of the powers granted to me by the South Ashfield Police Department. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law--"

"This is crazy," Henry said, just above a whisper.

"--You have the right to an attorney. If you can not afford an attorney, one will be provided for you." Douglas pulled Henry's arms around his back and produced a pair of handcuffs from within his coat, slapping them around Henry's wrists.

"I didn't _do _anything!"

Douglas continued speaking.

"Are you listening?"

"Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"

Henry didn't respond.

"Mr. Townshend, do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"

"Yes," Henry said, irritated. He couldn't believe that this ritual still meant anything to the detective--that he still thought it would do any good--after all that had just happened. And with all that was _still_ happening.

"Good." He jerked Henry up by the shoulder and escorted him to the back of the car, unlocked the door, and unceremoniously shoved him inside. Afterwards, he returned to his seat in the front of the car and shut the door.

"What's going on?" Heather said.

"Got him," Douglas said.

"Who?" Heather said.

"Me," Henry said.

"Who's 'me?'" Heather responded, irritable.

"Henry," Douglas said. "The Walter Sullivan copycat."

Heather gasped. "I remember hearing about that on the news!" She turned her head, seemed to realize it would do no good--she couldn't see him, anyway--and stopped. "This is him, in the car?"

"I didn't kill anyone," Henry said. "This is insane!"

"No," Douglas said. "What's insane it whatever the hell is going on in this town. What's insane is how that bastard James can dig out a woman's eye with his bare hands. What's insane is how a man can kill 8 people and show no remorse."

"I didn't..." Henry thought about pursuing the issue, but decided that it would probably do no good. This guy was set-in-stone on the belief that he, Henry, had killed the last 8 of Walter's 19 victims. "Listen, I was trying to save you guys back there. That guy with the gun, James--he was trying to kill you."

Douglas met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "How do you know James?"

"He saved my life," Henry said, startling both Heather and Douglas.

"That doesn't make any sense," Douglas said. "He saved your life?"

"Yes," Henry said. "Metalhead was going to get me--Metalhead, and Joseph. But then James came and stopped Metalhead. I think he might have killed it, but I wouldn't be so sure."

"Lunatic," Douglas said, and keyed the engine. "What's Metalhead?" The car sputtered to life, and warm air began to flow from the vents on the dashboard.

"The monster that was chasing Walter and I," Henry said. "I don't know what it is, exactly...but it seems to be coming after me, specifically."

"Where's Walter?"

"I don't know," Henry said. "The last time I saw him was at the Wood Side apartment complex. He was shot by the Other Walter."

Douglas had been about to hit the gas; he stopped. "_Other_ Walter?"

"Yes," Henry said. "You remember, the Other Walter?"

"No, I don't," Douglas said.

"The one that tried to kill me in Room 302," Henry said. "We talked about this back at the Police Station, remember?"

Heather shook her head. "I'm confused...what's going on?"

"Long story," Douglas said. "I'll tell you later." Then, turning back to Henry: "So you're trying to tell me that _both _of your Walter Sullivans are here in this town?"

"Simply put, yes," Henry said. "One of them is the one who tried to kill me, and the other one is the guy you arrested. They have the same name, but they're two different people."

Douglas shifted in his seat, unnerved. If what Henry was saying was true, then maybe...just _maybe_...it was possible that he _hadn't_ been the one who'd killed all those people. If there could be two, then there could be more...but what reason did he have to believe this man, if he _was _the murderer?

_Why would he make up a story like that? _his mind offered. _He knows about James, that's for sure. So he must've seen _something_ here. Who's to say this 'Metalhead' story is all that farfetched?_

"Whatever," he mumbled. "So this Walter, the other guy I arrested...where's he?"

"I don't know," Henry said. "I hope he's okay, wherever he is. He tried to save me. The Other Walter was coming after me. I think that guy might have some connection with Metalhead."

"So," Douglas said. "Let's just say, hypothetically, for minute, that you _haven't _killed anybody, and it's a perfect world. So...how do you mean to tell me this all went down? How does this guy who tried to kill you relate to the guy we arrested? And whose body is that in Room 302?"

Henry sighed. "I don't really know myself, detective. That's why I came here--though, if I'd known I was going to have to exhonerate myself from murder, I'd have thought a little farther ahead."

Douglas watched him in the rearview mirror, hanging from the roof over the dashboard.

Henry shivered. "Well...I have a few ideas, but they all run into basic problems. I think that the guy who tried to kill me in my apartment is the guy who killed the first 10 victims, originally. That's his body up in my room. After he killed them, and then himself, he became immortal--it's all part of this ritual--and he killed the other 9 victims. Then, we have this other guy named Walter, the one you arrested. As far as I know, he's got nothing to do with any of this, and his name is just a coincidence."

"So you're telling me that this guy, the one whose body we found in the room...somehow, he killed ten people, then killed himself in prison, and then--"

"No," Henry said. "He didn't kill himself in prison. He killed himself in my apartment."

"Well," Douglas said, "somebody named Walter Sullivan killed himself in prison about ten years ago, right here in Silent Hill. It was all over the news."

"I know," Henry said. "I can't explain that."

"I thought so," Douglas said. "So, rather than believe that you killed ten people, you're asking me to believe that there are not one, not two, but _three _people running around with the name 'Walter Sullivan' and the exact same appearance?"

Henry shrugged. "I don't know _what _to believe. It sounds weird, I know."

"Damn right it does," Douglas said. "It's insane. And _you're _insane, if you think I'm gonna buy that."

"Detective," Henry said, leaning forward, "you know what kind of weird things happen in and around this town. You know it's at least _possible _that I'm innocent."

"That's an issue for the courts," Douglas said.

"No it's _not,_" Henry said vehemently. "The courts don't know what you know, what your friend here knows. They wouldn't be able to understand. But you can."

Douglas chose to remain silent.

"If you help me figure this out," Henry said, "I'll try to prove to you that I'm innocent."

Douglas snorted.

"Really," Henry said. "That's the reason I came to this town. I wanted to find the truth about Walter, once and for all. How he was able to do all of those things, how he was able to bypass the limits of our world. How he was able to become immortal."

Silence from the front of the cab, still.

"Please," Henry pleaded. "I'm innocent. You've got to believe me. Why would I have tried to stop James from shooting you if I wasn't? If I was guilty, you'd think I would want you dead."

"You might also try something different," Douglas said. "Something that most criminals wouldn't think to try, especially if you were brilliant enough to get away with killing 10 people for as long as you have. You might decide to save my life, and use that as support for your character." He met Henry's eyes in the rearview again. "I'm not an idiot."

Henry tried to think of something that Walter would have said--some stinging remark that would offend, hit home, but also make the point--and found it. "You are, if you hold on to your silly police rituals instead of seeing what's in front of you."

Douglas' eyes narrowed.

"Look," Henry continued, "if you don't believe me, that's fine. But the Other Walter's out there somewhere, and he's trying to kill my...my friend, Eileen. I don't care what you do with me, just please...you've got to save Eileen."

"What are you talking about?"

"She was supposed to be next," Henry said. "She was victim number 20. I saved her once--when I killed the Other Walter--but I won't be able to save her again if you don't help me. And if he gets her...I'm next. I'm victim 21. And once I'm gone...I don't know what's going to happen."

"If you killed him in your apartment," Douglas said, "then why is he still alive?"  
"He's not 'alive,'" Henry said, "at least, not in the sense that you and I are. He's more like a...a ghost, or an abberation."

"Like James," Heather interjected.

"Heather--"

"Right," Henry said. "Sort of. _Unlike_ James, though, he has no restrictions. He doesn't take orders from anyone. He just kills."

"How do you know so much about James?" Heather asked.

"I spoke to him," Henry said. "After he saved my life, but before I knew he was going to kill your friend. He told me about how he murdered his wife, and how he wants to redeem himself...enough for me to grasp that he's fundamentally different from Walter."

"How so?" Heather asked.

"Like I said," Henry said, "Walter doesn't take orders. I don't understand any of Walter's motives--I don't know for sure if he knows what he's doing is wrong, or if he's operating on some kind of delusion...while James, I'm certain, is doing just that--he's consumed with illusions of grandeur. He thinks he's doing the right thing--he really thinks he's carrying out the will of some higher power."

"You don't think he really _is_?"  
"All I know is," Henry said, "Walter was performing some kind of ritual to bring that cult's God to earth. But the thing I saw under Room 302, the product of the 21 Sacraments, was no God. Nothing of the sort. Ever since then, I've doubted the existence of that cult's gods as anything more than monsters."

Heather gasped. "That's just like Claudia!"

"What?" Henry asked.

"Claudia," Heather said. "She was a woman from that cult, the Order. She tried to bring God to earth, too...but the thing I saw wasn't God. It was some kind of monster."

"What are you talking about?" Douglas said. Now, it was _his _turn to be lost.

"The God," Heather said, as if that should clarify all. Then, turning back to Henry: "But...how was Walter trying to bring the God to earth? I thought a woman had to give birth to her?"

Henry shrugged. "I don't know, really. It was somehow tied with the 21 Sacraments, but that's it. I just--"

"What are the 21 Sacraments?"

"It's kind of a long story," Henry said. "But basically, it's some kind of ritual that requires murdering 21 people in succession. I don't know if there are any rules to which people must be killed, or how, but something James said leads me to believe that there just might be."

"Wh...what's that?" Heather said. She seemed preoccupied with the murdering bit.

"Well," Henry said, "when we were on the balcony, just before you guys came through the door, James was talking about how I 'seemed so naive,' and then he said he understood why I was 'the Receiver.'"

"What's the Receiver?"

"Apparently, it's the name of the 21st Sacrament," Henry said. "I'm supposed to be the last one he kills." He turned to Douglas. "And I _will_ be, if you don't help me."

Douglas glared at him through the rearview...but Henry thought he could see deep thought, maybe even consideration, behind the detective's gaze. At least, he _hoped _he could.

"It sounds like he's in a lot of trouble," Heather said. "Douglas...you said you didn't believe him?"

Douglas nodded. "We found a body in his room."

"_Walter's_ body," Henry said.

"A body which, interestingly, is quite similar to one that disappeared from the cemetary near Silent Hill about 10 years ago," Douglas said. "Right before the murders started. It was almost like someone stole the body for some kind of sick collection; the 'genuine.' The thief seemed so obsessed with emulating Walter's style that he or she felt they needed the original body before they could perform the murders. That was _my _hypothesis, anyway."

"I don't know about that," Henry said. "I have no idea why that body is missing. All I know is, it's Walter's, and I didn't put it there."

"So it just crawled up out of the grave, went to your room, and crucified itself, then?" Douglas said.

"For one," Henry interjected, "you don't even know if that's the same body that was in the grave. There's no way you could've gotten those DNA and print tests back already."

Douglas had no immediate reply prepared for that; he felt that he should have expected the guy to have such a keen memory.

Henry, too, was running out of things to say. Oh, how he wished Walter were here; he always seemed to know just the right things to say to get to people, to make them click. Even if he was needlessly rude about those things.

"So," Heather said. "Douglas...how do you know he's not telling the truth?"  
"I don't," Douglas said. "Like I said, that's for the courts to decide. Henry was already arrested, and it's my job to make sure he gets back behind bars." He met Henry's eyes once more in the mirror. "If you're so innocent, then why did you run away from us on the way into town?"  
Henry hesitated, trying to think of another Walter-esque statement and coming up with nothing. "Walter said to."

"Walter, huh?" Douglas said. "So he was the one calling the shots?"

"There weren't any shots to be called," Henry said. "I didn't know what to think. One minute he told me to get ready to run, and the next thing we were running. It was totally impulsive; I barely had time to react."

"That doesn't change a thing," Douglas said. "If you were innocent, you wouldn't have had to run. Even if you _are _technically innocent...if _Walter_ was up to no good, and you helped him, then you're guilty by association."

Henry hesitated for a long time, then gave up and fell against the back seat. He wasn't going to get through to the detective, not even after all that had happened. The guy had it reasoned out so that, no matter what Henry said, he was guilty. As silly as it all was...the only positive thing he could imagine coming out of this was, _At least Walter'll kill me before I'm tried for eight counts of murder._

His only hope would be that the girl, Heather, would understand, and somehow convince the detective to cooperate. A chance, maybe...but a slim one at that. For there was a desire in the detective's eyes--a desire to believe, to find another ally in the midst of this insanity--but above that, shining as intense as the brightest star in the farthest corner of the universe, was his cop's instinct, which probably spoke against everything his heart was telling him. Even now, in the grip of supernatural phenomena beyond anything ever witnessed by mortal man, he was choosing to adhere to his doctrines instead of what he really felt was right. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism of some kind, to deal with the death of his friend--perhaps he'd simply shut down, refused to consider any further possibilities, resigned himself to solving this last problem and putting it all behind him. Or perhaps he was just dense.

_Just hang on a little bit longer, Eileen. I'll figure some way out of this...just...please, stay alive!_

END OF CHAPTER 28


	29. Miriam K Traitor

**Chapter 29**

**Miriam K. - Traitor**

_"Down below_

_There's a pile of sin_

_Always waiting for a _

_Waiting for a warning..."_

"No Brakes," _The Offspring_

_(Americana)_

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"_Father."_

Hmm...

"_Father!"_

Wha...huh?

"_Father, wake up!"  
_Who's there?

"_Hurry! There's not much time!"_

_He opens his eyes._

_Above him is a bright white light fixture, blinding, powerful. It's hanging from a brown plaster ceiling with wooden trim at the corners, in a large square room about the size of a small classroom. Wooden planks band together to form solid ground beneath him, but they turn into moist topsoil starting at some point about ten feet away. Past that, there is only darkness--the light does not reach even that far, for the darkness here is so piercing that it might well be solid matter._

_"She needs your help," the voice says. _

_A hand takes his and pulls him to his knees. He sits, bewildered...and all of a sudden, he remembers the last thing he saw. "No!"_

_"Yes," the female voice contributes from just behind him. He quickly turns on his heels._

_"It's you," he says, staring at the abomination which claims to be his dear friend. "Again."_

_"Yes," the Miriam-thing agrees. "What did you expect?"_

_"What do you want from me?" he asks, backing away. He reaches into his pockets, finding nothing. It is now that he once again recalls giving away his father's silver cross, and wasting all of the ammunition in the ten-millimeter he found earlier. He has nothing with which to defend himself this time._

_"Your time is short," she says, stepping towards him. He backs away from her, matching her progress step-for-step. "But it's not over yet, not quite. There's still one more thing you have to do."  
"Get back," he says, clenching his fists. "I want nothing more to do with you."_

_"That's a load," the Miriam-thing says, raising her own clawlike right arm. She points at him with one of those dry, crusty barbs that somebody somewhere might consider fingers. "You came to this town _because_ you have something to do with me."  
"I came here for Miriam. You're not her."_

_"But I am," the Miriam-thing says. "Soon, you'll see for yourself."_

_"What do you mean?" But the terrain will soon tell its own tale; he trips over something that reaches his waist and falls head-over-heels backward, dashing his head against the side of something hard. In more normal circumstances such a thing would cause intense pain...but for some reason, he finds that he feels nothing. His entire body feels ethereal--_thin--_as if it is not really here, as if this is all a dream._

Perhaps it is,_ he muses, rising to a sitting position, eager to see over what he has tripped--a gravestone of medium height, apparently blank._

_"It's not a dream," says the Miriam-thing. "Know that much."_

_"How do you know what I'm thinking?"_

_"I can see it," the thing says, still closing towards him. He can see its head over the top of the blank gravestone. "Think of it as a commune of sorts; a place where things gather, things and circumstances that cannot normally exist."_

_"What," he wonders, "this place?"_

_"This yard," the Miriam-thing says. "Now rise, Father. You've no time to sit around dilly-dallying. The girl is in serious trouble, and you're the only one who can help her."_

_"What girl?" he asks. "Eileen?"  
"You know," the Miriam-thing insists. "She needs your help right now. If you don't hurry, then all will be lost. You must take the items and bring them to the young one. She'll know what to do. She _already_ knows what to do; she only waits for your signal."_

_"What are you talking about?" he says, standing. "What signal? What items?"_

_"The items you found in the station," the thing says. "The cop told you where to find them. The Guardian has been dispatched to handle him...that foolish cop thought he could change the past."_

_"_What are you saying?_" he asks, frustrated. "I don't understand you! What cop? What is the Guardian?"_

_"The cop who called you. What's wrong...don't you remember?"_

_"Remember what?"_

_"Officer Leopold. Your connection. The one who told you about the cover-up."_

_"The...cover-up...the Miriam cover-up?"_

_"Yes," the thing says. It has passed around the gravestone, and now it stands over him like a tyrant, fire-red eyes blazing down upon him. "He quit the force shortly after that. Nobody ever did find out what happened to him."_

_"Yes," he says. "He disappeared. I _knew_ I recognized that voice! It was him, it was Leopold! But how?"  
"That's not important," the Miriam-thing says curtly. "After we conclude here, you must hurry to the hospital. That's where she is. You must stop the madman. Give her the items, and she will see that they are used properly."_

_"Eileen," he says. "That's who you're talking about?"  
"The madman is coming for her," the Miriam-thing says. "He's almost whole again, aware of his power. If he takes her, then your connection will be lost, and you will fail. They will all fail."_

_"The hospital," he mutters. "But that's where I came from! Nobody was there before!"_

_"Not _that_ hospital," the creature spits. "The other hospital. The one on the other side, where the madman waits."_

_"Wait," he says. His vision has begun to blur; he is starting to feel light-headed. "You mean, the one on the other side of town?"_

_"No," it says, speaking slowly, as if to a defective child. "The one on the other side of the hole."_

_"I don't understand."_

_"You don't need to. All will become clear once you leave this place. All you need to know is that you must hurry. _Do not forget_ to pick up the items before you leave the police station--if you leave without taking them, you will not be able to return, and your cause will be lost."_

_"What do they do?"_

_"There's no time," the thing scolds. "You won't be using them, anyway. Now come!" It brushes past him, causing his heart to leap into his throat--for one instant, he thinks it's going to descend upon him, but then it passes by without a glance. He turns, following the thing but making sure to keep a fair distance._

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Here," the thing answers, stopping in front of a lone gravestone. The thing points to it, a stern look on its face._

_On the gravestone are printed the words _Miriam K. - Traitor.

_"What's this?" he wonders, stepping closer. He is beginning to care less about getting close to the Miriam-thing; he is too mesmerized by the presence of the thing he hasn't seen in years._

_"You don't remember?" the Miriam-thing asks._

_"I remember," Steven says. "It's the shallow grave. The one...where they found her body."_

_"Where _Leopold _found my body," the Miriam-thing corrects. "You should be thankful for that. If it had been anyone else on the force, then it likely would not have ever been 'found.'"_

_Steven kneels down before the stone, staring at it, reading the words, feeling them with both his eyes and his fingers. _Miriam K. - Traitor. _They labelled her 'Traitor' when she was discovered. Just before her disappearance, she wrote him a letter with regard to the idea that she may have been found out, and in that letter, she said something very interesting to him: _You can't betray something to which you were never loyal in the first place._ A cliche, perhaps, but a true one. He didn't bother responding--didn't want to blow her cover--but weeks later, when the letters stopped coming, he started to wonder if he should've taken that last chance. When they found the body, he _knew _that he regretted it._

_"You came here for closure," the thing asks him, standing over the grave, looking down on him from the other side, "didn't you?"_

_"Not exactly," Steven says. "Not entirely, no."_

_"What is it you came here for, really?"_

_Steven closes his eyes, breathes deeply...thinks long and hard about the question...and, after a long time--certainly several minutes--he is finally able to speak the truth._

_"At first, I came here for revenge. I was coming for her sake, but also for mine. There was a selfishness inside of me."_

_"And now?"_

_"Now," he continues, "I don't really know. I mean...I know there's more for me to do here, but I don't know what, or why."_

_"Is there still a selfishness in your heart, that drives you to do evil?"_

_Steven is appalled to find that he cannot answer._

_"Answer truthfully," the Miriam-thing tells him, "for you will be repeating it to yourself for the rest of eternity, whatever it is that you feel. Don't lie."_

_"I think there is," Steven says. "But not unnaturally so. I think there's a certain degree of selfishness in everything that everyone does, even when it comes to helping others. Part of me wants that validation, that justification--'I'm helping others, so I'm the good guy, my actions are justified'--but also...there's something else. I can't quite explain it, but it's there."_

_"I think you _can _explain it," the Miriam-thing says. "Look deep into your heart, and you will find the answer."_

_"But this _is _the depth of my heart," Steven says, "isn't it? This place where all my motives lie, where the questions which sit behind my faith--not hindering it but enforcing it all the more--where I made my life's decision, all those years ago?"_

_The Miriam thing smiles...darkly._

_"There's something else here," Steven says. "Something guiding me. I don't think I've ever made any of those decisions alone, not ever since the day I felt it in my heart, realized that she had died." He looks to the gravestone, not _at _it but _through _it, _into _it. He sees the memory the stone represents. "A part of her was always with me, ever since we first met. A part of her was under all of that, guiding me, helping me to do right." He sighs. "Perhaps that's what love is?"_

_"Perhaps," the Miriam thing says. This time, there seems to be some degree of--could it be warmth?--to her smile. The darkness is still there...but there's something underneath, as Steven would say._

_"It's almost like I can hear her now," Steven says, "calling to me. She's here...in this town...Yes! I think I finally understand."_

_He slowly begins to rise to his feet, his eyes never leaving the name scrawled on the gravestone._

_"Do you?" the Miriam-thing asks._

_"Yes," Steven says. "You...you've been here all along. We may not have met before, but...you've been here all along, haven't you?"_

_Miriam smiles, nodding slowly._

_"And that's why you came to me," he says._

_"You can still be saved," she says._

_"I know," Steven says. "Because I'm still needed. Don't worry, Miriam, I know what's going on, why you're here now. And...on some level, I think I'm okay with it. Because you would have been." He locks eyes with her. "You were a saint. Everything you did was for someone else. I've been telling myself for years that it should've been me who went in, who was discovered, that I might have been able to stop you but that I let you go anyway...but that was wrong. I know I couldn't stop you. You had a calling, and you answered it."_

_Miriam smiles at him...and that is when Steven realizes something amazing; the demon which stands before him has begun to change. The violent red has begun to seep out of its eyes, and its arms have begun to solidify, to smooth out and turn a pale color. Its unnatural height has begun to diminish._

_"Miriam," Steven says, stepping closer, holding his arms out before him. "It's been so long."  
"Not yet," she says, backing away. "There is one more thing you must do."_

_The light falls out of Steven's eyes. "Right," he says. "I won't fail you. Not again."_

_"Don't you understand yet?" Miriam says. "Have you learned nothing?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Don't do it for me," she says. "Be your own person. Do it for yourself, and for them. They need you now."_

_"For what?"_

_Miriam regards him with surprise. "Why do you question me so?"_

_"Because," Steven says, "I want to know what you saw."_

_"What I saw?"_

_"When you passed to the other side," Steven says, smiling. "Out of this world, and into the next. I will be able to rest easily once I know I've done all I can--after I deliver those things--but all I ask from you is that you tell me...what did you see?"_

_Miriam's eyes darken, and her face grows stern. "Don't ask such silly questions. Besides, I've done more for you than that."_

_"What?"_

_"You must go soon," Miriam urges him, stepping closer but not touching him. She acts as if to touch him would be the end of her in some way more final than death itself. "Please."_

_"No," Steven says, stepping closer. She backs away, her eyes wide with surprised terror. He doesn't understand why she should seem afraid of him...but he decides he will not proceed any farther. "I must know! My whole life until now was about God. I must--"_

_"Don't kid yourself," she says, her eyes narrowing into angry slits. "Your life was spent abusing as many different chemicals as you could get your hands on."_

_Steven is shocked...but even so, it feels good to hear it spoken out loud. After all, he _can't_ deny the truth any longer, can he? He never wanted to be a priest at all, never believed a word of his teachings--which, he supposes, is blasphemy, but..._

_"You don't want to know any more about the forces behind this place than you do now," Miriam assures him. "Trust me...as a living human, you cannot possibly understand why you musn't know--I don't _expect_ you to understand, for it is human nature to believe that knowing is ultimately better than not knowing--but I can tell you as many times as I must...you don't want to know. It will spoil your existence."_

_"Why do they fight?" Steven asks._

_Miriam recoils, as if struck. She doesn't seem to know what he's talking about...either that, or she's in disbelief, that he could know as much as he's letting on. "What do you mean?"_

_"God and...well, whoever is down there," Steven says. "Or whatever the forces of the universe are. Whoever's in charge. Why do they fight? What's the point?"  
Miriam stares at him, seeming unsure of herself. "What's the point of living? What's the point of existing at all? Really? Even in a life of ease, there is conflict. It's only a matter of scale. From running out of Cheez-Its to dying of starvation, there is always conflict."_

_"Why?" Steven asks._

_"Because," Miriam says. "The world would not exist without conflict."_

_"But _why?_" he persists, stepping closer. Again, Miriam matches his step with one of her own._

_"Because of the Cycle," Miriam says. "The Grand Circle. The Loop."_

_"The Loop?"_

_"The circle that binds all things together. Everything is a cycle, Steven--you should know these things. A fish eats the plants at the bottom of the sea...that fish is caught by a fisherman and eaten...the fisherman's body drains the nutrients from the fish and uses them to fuel itself, and the energy transfers into action or motion. Energy cannot be created, nor can it be destroyed. It's a basic fact of life."_

_"But it must stop somewhere," Steven said. "If I can stop what's going on in this town...if I can throw a wrench into the Cycle...then perhaps I can break it?"_

_"You don't understand," Miriam says. "There is no stopping it. It's not a physical thing, it's not a place you can go, a thing you can break, a person you can kill, a book you can finish. It's a fact, intangible and unalterable. There is nothing anyone can do about it."_

_"Says who?"_

_"Says the powers that be," Miriam says. "You can solve all of the world's problems, if you feel so inclined--and if you possess the resources--but in doing so, you'll create more." She gestures with her hands. "You've heard the saying, 'One man's trash is another's treasure?' Well, that's true for conflict as well--one man's solution might be another man's problem. One book might end where another begins--the story will continue."_

_"But every book has an end," Steven says. "Even if it spans across seven titles...it must end. Because the person writing the story cannot live forever."_

_"Dare you equate the forces behind the universe with a mere human?"_

_"Why not?" Steven says, aware that saying so is, in effect, blaspheming the hell out of his religion. But he doesn't care anyway, not anymore. "I don't know anywhere near as much as I thought I did. For all I know, creation _itself_ is a cycle--a God creates a universe...but what if another such power created that God? How do I know the scale doesn't continue to increase indefinitely, beyond the scope of any possible perception?"_

_"You can't know," Miriam says. "See? Even if what you say is true...you can never understand, not as you are now."_

_Steven stares, uncomprehending...but then, slowly, his eyes begin to widen._

_He understands._

_"Do you see, then?"_

_"But I can see it in your eyes," Steven says, stepping closer. Miriam backs farther away, closer to the wall at the far end of this place that seems to be a graveyard. She appears nervous. "I can see recognition. You know what's going on, don't you?"_

_"Steven--"_

_"No," he says, closing in on her. She is afraid of him now, for some reason--why the change, he wonders? What has caused the tables to turn so drastically, so suddenly? "I must understand. Please! I may never be able to--"_

_"You'll know someday," Miriam says. "I cannot say any more. You must go now."_

_"Wait!" But it's too late; the room begins to flicker, to fade, to become inconsistant. The ground beneath Steven's feet begins to shift, throwing him off balance. He stumbles, falling onto his knees._

_"It's time," Miriam says, disappearing past some point beyond the fading light. "Go...free them...and free yourself."_

_Then, there is blackness._

_"I understand now, it all makes sense...I understand!"_

_He finds himself staring at a gravestone, in the center of a muddy field. This must be the land beyond the reach of the light's beam; there is little illumination, and what little light there is seems to be coming from Steven's body--faint, but present. He reads the name on the gravestone...and all of a sudden, it makes sense. It all makes perfect sense to him._

_"I understand," he says. "At least, I think I do...I'm pretty sure. This is..." He touches the letters, feeling their rocky texture beneath his fingers. He recognizes them._

Steven Denton. 1984--Now.

_"This is what I must do, then?" he asks, unsure to whom the question is directed. Miriam doesn't seem to be here to confirm or deny his attempts at clarification anymore. "This is what I must do in order to find out?"_

_No answer._

_"Fine, then," he says, rising to his feet. He finds that the ground has vanished beneath him, and the ceiling above, as well as the walls and the gravestone; now, he is chasing his own shadow through a dark and infinite limbo, with only his thoughts and newfound understanding to keep him company._

_And in the distance, he sees a bright light. A living metaphor, in the flesh--the old cliche, _Go to the light, my son,_ occurs to him...and doesn't have the same comic effect he expected it to._

_"I finally understand," he says, swimming towards the light. "I understand what I must do. Miriam...soon. Wait for me, okay?"_

_And then, there is light._

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The first thing of which Steven was aware upon waking was a sudden, overwhelming agony, shooting up the right side of his body. He was unable to keep an outraged wail from escaping him.

Looking down, he saw with a degree of terrified awe that the entire right side of his body had been ruined--a bruised, bleeding mess. He wasn't going to be able to move again, not like this. He didn't even see how he would be able to stand up.

All at once, the memory of Miriam came rushing into his mind

(_free them...and free yourself)_

and he forced himself to climb up and kneel on his left side. His right side flared up, but he bit down, stifling an almost unimaginable cry of pain, trying to keep the image of Miriam fresh in his mind. He _had _to finish this...no matter how agonizing the trip, he _had _to make it to that hospital before it was too late.

He turned on his knee, staggered, almost fell, caught his balance. He scanned the room for the items he'd found in the locker--the book was lying right next to him on the ground, the jar only a few feet behind it (miraculously unbroken), and the cup over by the door--and fought to maintain his consciousness. It would be nothing short of a miracle if he could make it from here to the hospital unaided.

Then, a noise from behind(?) him.

_Steven..._

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If one had been standing on the corner across from the police station, one might not have been able to see into the building itself, despite the crumbled wreckage of the front door--the glass, both that of the door and of the surrounding windows, had been shattered inward by some powerful impact, the metal frames twisted and the wooden ones broken--but one would definitely have seen the remarkable glow which emanated from some source within, filling the room and spraying out onto the street like some kind of celestial liquid. One might have seen the light brighten to the point at which it would be impossible to look at without damaging one's retinas, forcing that person to look away. However, he or she would likely have begun watching once again as the light faded, and so he or she would have seen the figure which emerged from the building--a man whose scraggly white hair might lead one to believe that he was nearing his 50's or 60's but that, one might be surprised to know, was actually in his mid-20's, wearing a black suit coat and matching black dress pants, along with newly-polished black ankle-boots to round off the uniform, stumbling forward on one knee, limping badly on the other. In spite of the fog and darkness which permeated the avenue, one would probably have taken notice of the man's shattered form--the right half of his body hung limp and useless, wrinkled in several places as if the bone beneath had been ground up into shards. One might have wondered how in God's name a man would be able to _move_ like that.

Steven stumbled forward, almost fell again...caught his balance again...and began to move ever-so-slowly across the wide street, mumbling something under his breath which may or may not have been _I'm on my way, don't leave me_. At last, he reached the corner of the block across from the PD and, holding onto the side of the building at the corner with the back of his left hand, began to make his way down the street, headed towards the hospital, a glass and a jar tucked under his arm and a book in his good hand.

_Just...a little bit longer...now..._

END OF CHAPTER 29


	30. The Prey

**Chapter 30**

**The Prey**

_"Sensing that I sense you, now there is no escape_

_I can almost taste your dandruff as I reach out for your face_

_And I strike!"_

"The Prey," _Dead Kennedys_

_(Give Me Convenience Or Give Me Death)_

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His feet were like anvils, his legs like jello...he felt it, and yet he did not. There was barely any feeling in his legs--it was as if they were no longer there. Which, technically, they weren't (not the right one, anyway--beneath the skin, there was little more than fragmented bone and tatters of muscle). He knew that he was probably going to suffer some permanent tissue damage if he didn't get to a hospital fast...as he felt the urgent swell of self-preservation rise in his chest, he also felt that other force, that voice, that light, not rising but _descending_ from his skull, seeming to meet the swell at some undisclosed point in between, quelling it, diluting it with that assuring glow, as if he had been struck with a tranquilizer dart. His body moved in a sudden, awkward series of staggering jerks, yet he perceived smooth and fluid motion, as if he were in a sailboat, riding a cool evening breeze. He heard the voice in his mind as well, sweet and comforting.

_I'm coming,_ he thought towards the Hospital, not even sure to whom he was 'speaking.' _Just...be careful. Try to stay alive for me._

Here he was, halfway down the sidewalk. Soon, he would reach the only street separating him from Alchemilla Hospital. Then he would be able to cross it and take care of business, put himself to use. He stepped forward...and landed on his bad leg, which gave out under him. He had not dropped as a response to any pain; his leg had simply refused to respond to his brain's commands, as if his body was trying to tell him _that's enough, you need to sit this one out._

"I've got another leg," he said, and used his hands--both good and bad--to climb back up to his good leg. Dragging the destroyed one beneath him, using it as a crutch, he entered into a slow hobble, gradually making his way down the sidewalk.

Time was running out; he couldn't afford to succumb to his body's pleas. He knew that it would be too late for him if he didn't stop and rest soon--his body might simply quit altogether, either out of shock, deprivation or exhaustion, and he would simply be no more. He would die here in these misty streets, his purpose unfulfilled, the enemy force left to swell, to rise to power. _That _was one injustice he could stand against--the _only_ one, probably--and he intended to do nothing otherwise.

_Just...hold on._

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_He can feel his heartbeat picking up, rising to meet the task at hand--his _blood is up,_ as his favorite storybook character, Roland Deschain, would've said--and he can feel his trigger finger growing restless. The gun cradled therein yearns to let blood. It has not been long at all, and yet it has been so long, so very long...but to the determined mind, even a thousand years is but a single turn of the dial, a single revolution. He raises his right hand, pulling back on the hammer of his revolver...and then raises his left, using the corresponding thumb to flip the hammer of his _other _gun. Both are .45s of indeterminable make--if one were to take these babies into a shop somewhere and inquire as to their origin, he or she would be met with confusion, perhaps even ridicule, for these guns have never been seen by mortal man, not once. They exist only in this world, only for this man, the Predator, the Conjurer, He who will find the True Center, He who will cast aside the foolish illusions of those who inhabit this place. Soon, He will enact His righteous vengeance, He shall punish those who would not see the light of their own accord, those too weak to break the illusion and see the terrible, wonderful truth, the One True Path. Oh, how He yearns to break their faces, to crush their souls, and to be One again!_

_He steps forward, out of the black and into the red, twirling his guns in each hand for no other reason than to entertain himself. He is now standing in a hallway with atrocious pink wallpaper and white floor tiles with a greenish tint. To his right is an unmarked bright green door, closed. Behind him is a blank wall--no sign of the transport he has utilized to reach this place. Of course not--he will not leave here that way, couldn't even if he _wanted _to, until he has accomplished his task._

_He must kill the girl._

She's here somewhere,_ he thinks, taking a step forward. He peers down the hallway ahead, which has been obscured by the night fog creeping in from the closed windows. Even though there is no link between here on the inside and there on the outside, the darkness has somehow found its way in, blocking the light emanating from the flourescent ceiling fixtures as though it is a real and tangible thing. Of course, he knows that it is just that; in this place, the darkness is the rule, and the light is the exception. For this is the Other Half, the Missing Piece._

_He sees none of the other things littered down the hallway--nurses' med carts, loaded down with pill boxes and charts and notes and pens and pencils and other such things, or any of the various posters which have been unceremoniously torn from their resting places upon the walls--only the double-door at the far end, filth-encrusted and rustic, marked with a strange but familiar symbol. Stepping closer, it becomes clear exactly what the symbol is: a word, lettered in calligraphic gold._

Hagith.

So that's how it's going to be,_ he thinks. _Oh, well...here goes.

_He lifts up one booted heel and plants it in between the two doors. They crash inward, slamming against the walls on the other side. He steps into the elevator station, pausing only to read one of the posters which has been ripped from the wall--they litter the floor in this room as well, and it is only now that he notices they all say the same thing--_God is a Good Man--_and are otherwise blank, solid black. They seem to have been torn down in some violent rage, as their tears are not neat but jagged, savage. Perhaps the act is symbolic? For some odd reason, he finds the line from some song occurring to him at this time: _When the only true messiah rescues us from ourselves, then I do imagine...there will be sorrow...there will be sorrow...there will be sorrow no more...

_The line chills him to the bone. He doesn't know why it should--he has nothing to fear, not anymore, now that he is almost Whole again--but it does, all the same. Perhaps it resonates with some part of him which still remains what society would call 'human.' Not to say he's not entirely human anymore...just that he's not _predominantly _human. The change which has taken place within him has unified him, made him one with the greater universe...for better or for worse._

_But how can 'worse' even be a possibility when the trade-off is so magnificent? When he can finally find himself on the verge of true enlightenment, the true meaning of the universe? How can he think negative thoughts when he is so close to the door behind which God him- or herself may very well sleep?_

_He finds that he is giggling nervously, just under his breath. The idea that he, Walter Romero Sullivan, a mere lowly student, is as close to discovering God itself as he is is enough to send another chill through his spine. This is not just the end of some great fairy-tale--this is the end of _all _great fairy-tales, the climax of the story of life, the final weave in the great thread of existence. Seeing God...he thinks it will be like watching the part _past _the end of the movie, the part that nobody else has ever noticed because they're too busy arguing about what the rest of the movie meant. Yes...it will be a delicious, enriching feeling, to meet his maker. He wonders what kind of being God will be--malevolent? Benevolent? Apathetic?_

_Gone?_

_"No," he says out loud, out of reflex. "No thoughts like that." He'd rather not believe that God is not there at all. Somehow, finding that God has been insane all along, or dead, or--the worst of all--never there to begin with...that would fill his heart with something so deep that there is no word to describe it...except maybe _sorrow._ Yeah, that sounds about right. Sorrow. A great, piercing sorrow, in knowing that his existence means nothing, that every scream of every man, woman or child who ever died for his or her cause was in vain, that there is no Great Beyond but only darkness...or even light...what does it matter, if one simply ceases to be after dying? What does any of it really--_

_"No," he reiterates. "Just stop right there. Do what you came to do."_

That's right,_ the voice in the back of his mind urges. _You know what you came to do. You've wasted enough of your life worrying about God as it is--don't waste any more.

Right,_ he calls back across all the dimensions of his confused, maze-like consciousness. It is almost as if being this close to the Great Center has begun to reach him in ways he has never expected, ways he cannot possibly counteract. He has begun to fear that even _approaching _God is threatening to dismantle his very being, one step at a time. If this is true...he wonders, what will happen when he finally looks God in the eye? Will he simply come apart?_

No matter_, he reminds himself, pressing the 1_ _button on the elevator. The doors open instantly, as if they have only been awaiting his command all along. Soon, he will kill the Mother, and then he will kill the Receiver, and then God will finally appear before him...and then, all of his questions will be answered._

_Walter steps into the elevator, and his grin disappears as the doors close before him. The cab descends, taking him down into the worst kind of hell imaginable. But he will brave it...he will perservere, just as he has done his entire life. He will bear sacrifice...and he will discover the truth._

_The transformation begins._

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It all happened so fast; after it was all over, she would be struggling to understand it for some time: _How _had he known to show up then and there, as he had? How had he known that someone was going to come after her?

None of that had crossed her mind just yet, though; right now, Eileen was staggering down the stairwell between the second and third floors, trying to get down to the lobby. Her mind was racing, trying to comprehend everything she'd been told in the past few minutes, trying to put it all in place so that it made sense, and she found that she just couldn't pull it off. It just didn't make sense--it had been bad enough with the visions, and then the girl in the alley, that strange otherworld, the Visitor (that was what she had come to think of him--or it--as), all of that...and then the blank period, that burned-out spot in her memory between the scene in the alley and her waking here...but then there had been the phonecall. And now the chase.

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She had awakened in some room on the third floor, lying face-up with one leg hanging off the edge of the bed. Her first reaction had been a sort of terrified disorientation--the shift of scenery between that strange place in the alley and this calm, cool environment had set her off-balance--but after she had a moment to clear her head, she found that there was nothing to be afraid of, at least not immediately.

She made as if to rise out of the bed, and succeeded only in crashing to the floor. It seemed as though her legs would not serve her. It was only a moment later, trying to stand up and meeting with a strong, unpleasant tingle in her legs that she realized they were asleep. Which was odd, considering that she hadn't been sleeping in a position which would have put her legs to sleep. Unless she had only been put here very recently...which was a possibility. But that conclusion only raised a hundred other questions--how had she gotten from that other place back to this one? Who had taken her? What had happened during that blanked-out period?

"Ugh," she moaned, glancing around the room, trying to get a feel for this new environment. "Never mind."

She stared at the door for a long time, until she felt the last of that tingling creeping out of her legs, and then she rose warily to her feet and started towards it. Just as she was reaching for the knob, a loud, shrill ringing pierced her eardrums, startling a cry out of her. She pivoted, expecting something strange and terrible to occur...and could only giggle as she realized what the sound was: the ringing of a telephone. A little black classic-dial dealie, sitting on the counter across from the bed.

"But," she wondered out loud only seconds later, struck with the realization that it was very odd for a phone to be on the opposite side of the room from the bed; If the patient occupying the room had an injured leg or something of the sort, he or she would be unable to respond to any calls. Dismissing the suspicion for the moment, she approached the phone and lifted the handset. "Hello?"  
Silence. No, wait...not complete silence. There was the fuzz of an occupied line--there was definitely somebody on the other end.

"Hello?" Eileen repeated. "Is anyone there? Listen, I don't--"

"Listen to me," a meek yet stern voice said suddenly, cutting her off and startling her. "You must hurry. Get out of there right now. He's coming!"

"What..."

"There's no _time_," the voice said. "There's been a change of plans. I hope to God you remember everything you're supposed to do."

"Who is this?"

"He's not there yet," the voice said, either ignoring her or just not hearing her, "but he's coming fast. He's almost whole again. The Guardian slowed him down a little bit, gave the Red One a run for his money, but it'll be back before long, and then he'll be unstoppable. You've got to get out of there, and find the Father. He's got what you need, the stuff, but he can't reach you as things are. _You'll_ have to reach _him._"

"What are you talking about?" Eileen said. "Who's here? Who's the Father? Are you talking about that Steven guy?"

"You remember everything the Visitor told you, don't you?"

"Who's the Visitor?" Eileen said. She hoped she sounded as frustrated and angry as she was becoming, and not as scared as she was.

"Oh, great," the voice responded, clearly displeased. "If you don't remember on your own, you're screwed. I don't have time for this. You know what to do. Just give it some time, it'll come back to you. Until then..._haul ass._ The Guardian's on his way here, so this will probably be it for me...but you still have a chance. You can still get at the source, kill the Red One before he reassimilates. Once the Reassimilation has taken place, there's no turning back. You've got to stop him here and now--there won't be a second chance." A sigh, then a pause...a smacking sound, perhaps that of the voice's owner wetting his lips...then: "It's down to you, the Father, and the other two. You're the only ones who can stop this."

"Who are you?" Eileen asked again. "What do you mean, this? What do you want me to stop?"  
"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help," the voice said, and then there was a _click._ He'd hung up on her.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath. "What was that all about...?" But before the question had even been fully formed, she thought she had the faintest trace of an idea: something was, indeed, coming back to her, albeit slowly. She had seen something in that alley, just before the Father had shown up, something that had gotten to her on some deep level...but _what, _Goddamnit, _what?_ She now knew that whatever hid behind the curtain of memory was going to be key to her survival. If she didn't hurry up and remember what the hell had happened, she was very likely going to be caught and killed--maybe worse--by this "him" character, of whom the mysterious disembodied voice on the phone had spoken.

_Damn you, short-term amnesia!_

She turned for the door and jerked it open, expecting to see anything but what she did.

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Her feet skidded on the bottom step, and she almost lost her footing and collapsed to the floor. At the last second she managed to catch herself on the railing, sparing herself a nasty (and possibly crippling) fall. She didn't want to touch the railing with her bare hands--didn't want to touch _anything_ in this place with her bare hands--but it was either get nasty or get dead.

Upon exiting the seemingly clean room upstairs on the patient wing, she had stumbled into a dark environment more filthy and run-down than the worst public restroom she'd ever used--and _that _was saying a lot. The walls had been stained a dark brown-ish red by some unidentifiable substance, appearing black in context with the other stains on the wall but possibly some other color, and the plaster had begun to peel in several places. Scattered all across the wall had been large, infectious-looking bubbles, reminiscent of the kind formed when human skin was exposed to a heavily acidic substance. The floor had been the rotten yellow color of the teeth of one who abuses tobacco on a regular basis. All around her had been a piercing darkness unlike anything she'd ever experienced in her life, save for one occassion--it had been this darkness which had caused her memories of the scene in the alley to return with more unforgiving clarity, slowly but surely. It had been in the alley that she had first experienced that piercing darkness, and seeing it now was drawing that memory up to the front lines of her conscious mind, as ready to do battle against the force(s) which now threatened her as the rest of her body. That was, if she could resist the panic she felt welling up within her at the sight of this horrible new development.

The stairwell--and every other area of the the hospital, apparently--was coated with that same horrible mixture of stains, contaminated with those same unsettling bubble shapes, blanketed with those same stained floor tiles, flooded with that seemingly impenetrable darkness. There was almost no light at all; the few ceiling fixtures, scattered at set intervals down the stairwell, that hadn't been shattered or otherwise destroyed or removed emitted only the faintest glow, barely enough to penetrate the suffocating darkness. If she didn't get some light soon, her eyes were going to cramp up too bad to be able to see anything; even trying to see the next step beneath her became a task full of dread, for some part of her kept expecting the next step to never emerge from the darkness, expecting there to be nothing below but an endless chasm. She had no idea why she should feel such a thing--it was probably the panic, choking both her mind and body with visions of death, capture, torture, and worse. She wished like hell that Henry was here. He would know what to do.

_No, _her confident mind argued, _he would _pretend _to know what to do. He wouldn't really know what to do any more than you do right now._

"Maybe," she pondered out loud.

_No maybes about it, _the voice in her head egged on. _You always whine to me about how Henry would've done this, Henry would've done that, but you never just _do _what you think Henry would do._

"Maybe that's because I don't _know,"_ she argued.

_Neither does he,_ the voice in her head retorted.

Finding that arguing with herself (and over such a trivial matter) was a valuable waste of time--there was very likely some sinister force on its way to catch her at this very moment, if the voice on the phone had been correct--she pressed onward, finally reaching the bottom of the stairwell. There was a single door straight ahead, completely devoid of any distinguishing feature aside from a knob, and she rushed through it almost as if it had never been there at all.

She found herself in a wide, run-down room that looked strangely familiar. Seconds later, she recognized it; it might not have been the _exact _same room--_couldn't_ have been--but it sure as hell _looked_ like the CG room used in the music video for one of her favorite songs, _The Kids Aren't Alright._ Who had done that song, again?

_Focus,_ her mind urged. She glanced around the room, looking for another exit. The walls were made entirely of wood, with only a single large window at the far end to interrupt the unsettlingly straight pattern the upright planks formed, and the floor was of similar construct. The wood was cracked and splintered in countless places, so much in the far corner near the window that the floor would be impossible to tread upon. Thankfully, the only other exit--a single open doorway--was not in that direction, but on the wall to the far left.

It was only during the act of crossing the room that Eileen realized how large it was; probably fourty or fifty feet by as much, at least. Reaching the door, she realized that she could not see at all beyond it--there was only blackness.

"Great," she whispered, almost afraid to speak out loud for fear of alerting whatever strange thing or things awaited her beyond that darkness, should such things indeed exist. With that said, she swallowed her terror, gathered her courage and forced herself to take a step into the room.

Before she could react, the ground beneath her crunched, gave out...and she was falling.

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After what was surely an hour (but was, in reality, only about ten minutes) of travel during which he had drifted in and out of consciousness yet somehow remained upright, Steven found himself standing before the rusty front gate of Alchemilla Hospital, holding on to the stiff wrought-iron as if for dear life, unable to support the weight of his body any longer. He could already feel his consciousness ebbing away.

"No," he pleaded, feeling his mind trying to slip away. "No, not now! Please...just another...few minutes...is all I...need..." But he was already drifting off. He was returned to complete wakefulness only by a sudden rush of terror through his heart--a painful tremor, caused by the temporary (but nonetheless undeniable) certainty that he was just going to pass out and die right here, his purpose unfulfilled. The thought gave his body one final rush of adrenaline--just enough, he hoped, to assist him as he passed into the Hospital and transferred the items to someone who might get more use out of them than he had thus far.

He tried to push inward on the wrought-iron gate, but his hand slipped off...glancing at it as he fought to maintain balance, he noticed that it was coated with blood. But...when had he cut himself? He knew that he was bleeding, but--

_But that's not my blood,_ a voice whispered to him from the crypt in the back of his mind. _It wasn't there a second ago._ Looking up, he realized that he was right--the blood had come not from his own hands, but from the gate. It was covered in blood, and dotted in several places by heavy rust. But wasn't wrought-iron rust-proof? He thought he remembered reading that somewhere...

_Chuck it, _a voice spoke up in his mind. He was startled to find that it was not his own. _Just go forward. That's all you have left._

"Right," he said. "Just...don't let me down."

_I won't if you won't,_ the female voice spoke back.

"Good," Steven said, actually managing to drag a smile onto his face. "That's...good to hear." And with that, he pushed the gate open. He found himself in a small yard that might have been a garden under normal circumstances...but these were not normal circumstances, by any means. He was beginning to recognize the motif of this strange place--it was unsettlingly similar to that of the alleyway he'd traversed earlier: Metal grate floors, blood-stained doors, and here, protruding from some indiscernable point far below the metal ground, some kind of pointy metal...thing. He wasn't exactly sure _what _it was supposed to be. It was large, shaped sort of like a large tube but with little points on the top and encased in a metal sheath. The closest he could come to describing it with words was that it looked like a big metal chess piece--specifically, a bishop--covered with some kind of shell. He watched as tiny drops of moisture rained down upon the alien structure from above...and realized that it was raining, had been for several minutes, possibly since before he'd even gotten here. Had he just not noticed before?

_You're in another place now,_ Miriam's voice spoke up from deep inside. So she was...what, riding shotgun inside his head? _You're in the Bad Place, the place from before. Remember?_

"I do," Steven mumbled. He felt that same dread from before as well, creeping up on him like a predator to steal his heart. "Damn straight, I do."

_There's little time, _Miriam warned him. _Please hurry! The madman draws nearer as we speak!_

"Just...relax," he said, realizing that he was barely even breathing--his chest was producing a horrible wheezing noise with each meager inhalation. "What will be...will be."

_Just don't let your overconfidence fool you into thinking you're doing enough to excuse fouling this up._

"Wow," Steven said, stumbling to his right, towards the only visible entrance--though the building expanded around the strange bishop-shaped thing in a U-shape, Steven could not see any other doors or windows, only a wide brick wall stained with many different dark colors, their residues running down and following the paths of the mortar between the bricks as water follows an irrigation trench, all the way to the ground.

He reached forward and wrapped his good left hand around the handle on the front door, meaning to pull it open...and hesitated. At first he didn't understand the sudden desire to pull back, but moments later he was filled with a strong, imminent sense of

_(GET OUT GO HOME GO BACK)_

dread, of fear, of phobic terror. He wasn't supposed to be here, he never should have come here, what he was looking for was not here--

_Snap out of it,_ Miriam's voice shouted from some distant point, far in the back of his mind. It seemed that whatever force had struck him so had also made an effort to muffle Miriam's voice. _It's some kind of magic! It's trying to keep you away from the madman!_

"Who's...trying to keep...me away?" he asked, still standing with his fist clenched around the handle.

_The Red One,_ Miriam added curtly, as if it should be obvious. _He's on his way here. Once they come together, the madman will be unstoppable. You must hurry!_

Steven did not voice a reply to that one--for surely, to voice a reply was to invoke a response, and Steven was beginning to feel the sentiment himself, stronger than ever--time was running short, and there was no time for talk, only action.

He mustered all of his strength and jerked the door wide open.

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_He steps out of the elevator and into the otherworld._

_Before him is the first floor elevator station--a la Walter Sullivan. Blood and rust stain the once fresh pink plaster, and the torn posters are now dirty rags caked so thickly with either blood or something else of similar color that they are no longer discernable. The ground is now a dark reddish-brown metallic grate, with long, narrow slits running the length, slits that break every four feet or so for structure's sake. Not that this place should be conceivably realistic--it could never possibly exist in the "real" world._

Focus,_ the voice in his mind says. _She is near!

_"Yes," he acknowledges, opening the double-doors to his left. He is back in the second floor hallway...which has undergone similar drastic changes. The windows intervalled along the right-hand wall every twenty feet or so have all been shattered inward, coating the floor with broken glass, and some unfamiliar shape has begun to creep in from the outside, reaching in and latching onto the corners of each window as if for purchase. The intruder would appear to be some kind of foliage; the fact that it is present at each of the many windows seems to hint that there are much greater forces at work here, as well. He is not the only one, then? Well, it doesn't matter. Soon, he will be Whole again--as he stands here, the Red One is on his way. The journey will be a bit more difficult thanks to the Guardian, who apparently thinks he's killed the Red One, but Red knows this place like the back of his..._

_...his what? His hand? But he has no hands, not really..._

No matter,_ the voice speaks up from the front of his mind, irritable. _You must hurry!

_"Right," he says out loud, proceeding down the hallway. He proceeds calmly, as opposed to the anxious element dwelling behind his forehead...but just as he stands to pass the last of the seven windows, something shoots in from the outside, abruptly punching into the wall to his left. Less than a foot in front of his face, the thing is, and now it's moving, pulling out of the left-hand wall and curling towards him. It's some kind of tendril, presumably that of the demon-foliage making its way slowly but surely into the building. It's alive, then...and predatory._

_Walter needs only raise one hand and pull the trigger on his revolver. The tendril disconnects from the mass less than an inch from its contact point with the window and falls to the floor, where it twitches...twitches...bleeds, then twitches some more...and ceases movement._

_Just as he steps over the intruder's severed appendage, he feels a chill sweep over him, from the base of his spine to the back of his neck. She is here, he can feel her, directly underneath him. But this is the first floor...so she must be in the..._

_"The basement!" His mouth falls wide open, terrified. "But...how? How did she get down there?"  
_You must hurry before she gets...there,_ the voice implores. _You can still catch her; don't lose hope.

_"I don't need a cheerleader right now, if that's fine," he says, and the voice--praise God--shuts up. He finds that the only way he can proceed without entering full-panic mode is to walk at a fast but steady pace. If he begins to run...his anger and anticipation will overtake him, and he will be lost to the winds of madness which threaten to blow all around him._

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The first sensation she was able to respond to was that of cold metal, pressing against all parts of her body. She was struck with an image from a movie she'd seen about a week ago in a theater, just before all the proverbial shit hit the fan--_Saw II--_and for a moment she was sure that she'd been placed into one of those terrible traps, the kind that you had to do some unimaginable thing to yourself in order to escape, and her eyes flew open, arms flailing...she was in no such trap. She was free as a bird, or at least as free as one could be in a situation like this.

Rising to her feet, she cast a glance around her. She was standing in a dark hallway, with almost no illumination--there was no visible light source, and yet she was able to see just a little bit ahead into the darkness...but only very faintly, as one's eyes might see in heavy darkness once they have adjusted by weak moonlight. The floor here is made of metal as well, but not the same kind as the floors above...the menace isn't there; no bloodstains, no other unidentifiable substances, no breaks opening on bottomless pits. This actually seems to be somewhat of a normal room.

"I'll be a..." To the left of where she stood was a tall door, marked _Basement-1._ That must open on the staircase leading up to the basement floor. She didn't even want to think about going back up there...or about what kinds of things might be waiting...and that prodded her to wonder what kind of things were down here? After all, this was even deeper underground, if her assumption was correct.

She decided to ignore that door and turn to the right, down the hallway. It was so dark that way, she had to keep her left hand on the wall as guidance. It was not long before she came across another door, about ten feet down. She felt around for the doorknob...and realized there was none. There was, however, a hollow where it might have been before. Dismissing it, she continued to move down the hallway, using the wall as guidance.

Just then, a thought streaked across her mind: If she came to another drop like the one she'd fallen through, she wouldn't even see it coming. She would simply crash through the ground and fall, fall, fall...and she had a feeling that she wouldn't like what she might find underneath this deepest of places, this farthest of the corners of this strange terrible world.

But at the same time...she didn't think there would be a drop like that, not here. No...this place had a decided feeling of _normality,_ at least relatively so. There was not that degree of menace perpetrated by the environment above, in the hospital. It was almost as if...well, the closest she could come to articulating the sensation was that it was sort of like the hospital itself was a hurricane, and this was the eye of the storm, the calm center, where something both great and horrible waited for discovery. She wondered if it would be beneficial for her to stumble across that something.

Before she realized it, she had passed another knobless door, and now she came to a third one. This one had a small window just a little bit below eye-level, as if made for someone who was slightly below average height.

Even though she could not see through the window due to the darkness, looking at it--seeing that it was there--filled her with a sense of unease. Doors didn't usually have windows unless you were supposed to be able to see without going through them. And that was usually the case only when entering posed some level of danger to whomever chucked safety and went inside, anyway.

Eileen wasn't surprised to find that this door had a knob, unlike the others.

Her hand already starting to tremble from the magnitude of her thoughts, thoughts of what might be on the other side, but she reached for the knob anyway...wrapped her quaking hand around it...heard the mechanism _click_ as the door prepared to be opened for the first time in forever...and pushed inward.

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_This time, when he steps out of the elevator, he is on the basement floor. The floor is strange here--it remains still, but the pattern is that of swimming, veinous lifeforms. It is as if this place is actually some magnificent organism, and by going down, he is drawing nearer and nearer to its heart. Remembering his encounter with the tendril on the first floor, he wonders how far from the truth that is._

_The basement hallway is very short, though twisting. He proceeds, rounding the corner to the left. Another twenty paces brings him to the door marked _Storage._ This is where he must go...he can already feel her running deep below him, in the bowels of this place, so close to the Point...and so he opens the door, rushing forward, his guns still drawn._

_Beyond the door is a tiny square room, no more than twenty or so feet by same. Four small cabinets line the edges of the closet, two running the length on each side, but they are almost empty--there is only rust, caked beside other unimaginable stains, and a couple of jars containing some substance probably better left alone. He passes these things without a second glance, opting for the oblong red cabinet in the far corner. He makes as if to open it...and instead, simply brushes it aside with physical strength that is not normal by any means. The cabinet doesn't just topple over to the left, it _tumbles _end-over-end, as if gravity has been waiting a long time to get back at it due to some vendetta. It hits the wall to the left, right near the corner, where it splinters into several pieces and collapses onto itself._

_Behind where the cabinet once stood is the thing it was meant to conceal: a very tall, very narrow door, surely no more than two feet wide and at least fourteen high--it reaches to a point about an inch from the ceiling. He makes an effort to turn sideways and slide through the door, struck with a sudden bout of claustrophobia that clears only when he has reached the other side._

_The presence of a dangerous entity in here is no longer deniable; the empty floors and walls are strung inextricably with hundreds, maybe _thousands_, of feet of that otherworldly foliage. Some of the tendrils have small bulbs protruding from different points all along their lengths, like tiny egg sacs. Walter knows plants don't lay eggs, but he also knows that here, there are two problems with that little factoid--he doesn't know for sure that this thing is entirely a plant, and even if he does...the rules of this place are thin, at best._

_Other than the infectious amount of foliage covering every visible inch of its surface, the room is completely empty, about thirty feet back and twenty wide. At the far end of the room, embedded into the ground almost against the wall (surely no more than a couple of inches from it), is a wide grate entryway, presumably continuing down into the deepest part of the hospital._

_Walter approaches this grate, trying to avoid getting his feet caught up in the dense and somehow threatening foliage. He reaches his destination, struck with the realization that the entryway is not usable; the creeping tendrils have inextricably bonded its two components together at the center. It might take hours to remove that level of dense plantlife, even with the proper tools._

_Just then, the voice in the back of his mind speaks up. _Worry not. They're here for you, remember?

_"Right," Walter says, and closes his eyes. He remembers the Red Eye, and with this image foremost in his mind, sends a message to the master of the tentacles which bar his passage_

_(SUBMIT GET LOST BEGONE LET ME THROUGH)_

_along with a series of images of the tentacles withdrawing of their own accord, relinquishing their hold on the grate. He opens his eyes..._

_There they still sit, wrapped around his only means of proceeding._

_"What?"_

Why do they not separate before you?

_"Because they're _not_ here for me," Walter says. "They're here for _her._ They will only bow to _her _command."_

That's impossible. She's--

_"She's here, in town," Walter interrupts. "I can feel it. But why? What is _she_ doing here? I thought she was..." His thoughts begin to trail off, however, once he realizes an interesting development below him._

_The tentacles surrounding the grate have begun to twitch._

_"What's this?"_

They responded when you acknowledged her.

_"Hmm," Walter says, folding his arms. "Do you think--"_

It's worth a shot,_ the voice says, and Walter can almost see its owner shrugging. The coolest thing about talking to yourself, he thinks, is that you never have to wait until you finish your sentences. He's heard someone say that before...but who? When? Where?_

_"Well," Walter says, closing his eyes once more, "here goes nothing..."_

_He calls up an image of _her _in his mind, the only way he remembers her from all those years ago--quite young, but still similar to her current self, with that messy but somehow still mildly attractive visage--and sends another message_

_(PART BEFORE ME IN THE NAME OF THE HOLY MOTHER)_

_to the tendrils blocking his entrance._

Did it work?

_"I don't know yet. Why don't--"_

_As if his spoken words are the cue, the tendrils begin to stir, tremble...and then, by God, they begin--slowly--to uncurl themselves from around the metal grate. In less than a minute, they have almost completely pulled free, and in two, the grate is once more usable. Two wing-like masses of tentacle peer over the gate to either side, flanking it, as if to mark the passage of a great King._

_Smiling, Walter kneels before the grate, feeling his holstered guns rap against the side of his legs. He unfastens the hook holding the gate together in the center and pulls it open one wing at a time--left first, then right. Looking down, he can see stairs, descending into darkness...and nothing else._

It's almost time,_ the voice in his mind says. _She's right down there...get ready.

_"Oh, I'm ready," Walter says, drawing his guns as he steps down into the stairwell beneath the grate. "Ready as I'll ever be."_

She's reached the Point.

_"I know."_

There is only one way out, now. You must--

_"I _know,_" he says, descending the stairs. "I don't need your help anymore, not right now. Just...sit back, and watch me work."_

_Grinning with anticipation, he reaches the bottom step, places himself on solid ground once more, and finds himself right in front of a door marked _Basement-2.

_He reaches forward and grasps the knob._

_It turns..._

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The room was very small, with a ceiling that curved downward towards the back that reminded her of the attic in the house she'd lived in as a child. There wasn't much in the room, but it seemed cluttered nonetheless. Perhaps it wasn't physical matter which caused the room to feel so cluttered, but the weight of the travesties which had taken place here. She didn't know exactly what had happened...but she could feel it, weighing down upon her, heavy like sorrow. Something horrible had happened here, and although the events had been buried under the years, some trace element remained, treading near the surface. She was suddenly reminded of a passage from some book--she thought it might be the Bible, but she wasn't sure--about how shedding the blood of the innocent cursed the land, or something.

In the center of the room was a small bed, certainly not big enough for a full-grown human. It must have been meant for a very young child--a thought that made Eileen very uncomfortable. Beside the bed was a similar-sized table, lined with complex monitoring equipment and what appeared to be a single staring gold-framed photograph. Subtly tucked into the corner immediately to the right of the door, there was some kind of medicine cabinet--she could see several unmarked pill bottles through one open sliding door. She wondered what kinds of drugs might be inside, then decided it didn't matter.

She approached the bedside table, feeling the sorrow of this place gripping her heart, threatening to tear her apart. It was as if the spirits of a time long past had now come to life, and were trying to possess her, in a sense. She fought off the crazy thoughts racing through her mind, realizing that she might well be on the verge of something amazing, and picked up the picture on the bedside table.

A girl stared out from the photo, facing Eileen with a look of kindness so grave, so solemn, that it was almost closer to insanity. She knew there was a degree to which a person could offer him- or herself for the good of another...but the face in that photo had the expression of someone who has given far too much, who can never be repayed for the sacrifices she has made. Eileen imagined she could feel the pleas of the girl in the photograph, reaching out to her even across time, perhaps from some unspeakable place where, even now, the twisted events of the past were still happening. It was only then that she felt moisture on her cheek, and realized that it was a tear. She wiped it off, unsure why it had been shed in the first place--Eileen knew not a single thing about what had happened in this room.

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_Walter is in the hallway now, and although he can't see the hole over his head--the one through which Eileen must have fallen in order to reach this place--he knows it is there. He can sense it. He no longer believes that this place is a part of him, or was meant for him in any way...but in accepting that, he has learned other ways to manipulate it to his needs. He wonders how the Holy Mother might feel about the events which are taking place right here and now. He wonders whose side she would take, if any._

_As he follows the hallway with rapid, focused strides, determination welling in his chest, he realizes that he can feel a strong negative field emanating from somewhere close by. It is a familiar thing, that negativity...he recognizes it, because he has felt it before. It's been many long years, but now he remembers the feeling that had hung over his heart like a black raincloud during all the early years of his life, back when he'd been living at the orphanage under the rule of fanatic religious leaders. It's a dead feeling, the only thing a person in the midst of an unbeatable depression is capable of feeling. It fills his heart with sorrow to feel that again, here in this place--to know that someone else, somewhere in time, had to feel something even close--but he is consoled by the fact that it's not a _real _emotion, not anymore. It's only a memory, brought to life by the powers of this place. It's coming from _the Point._ Whoever it came from...that person is long gone._

Not at all,_ the voice speaks up from the back of his mind. _She's very much alive, to this day. She's here in town.

_"She's the one, then," Walter says, passing an overturned gurney against the wall to his right--he can see it, even though there is no light in this place, and once again takes a moment to feel thankful for his 'power.' "She's the one they said would birth God one day?"_

You should know,_ the voice teases._

_"Whatever," Walter says, twirling his guns. "I thought I told you to leave me alone while I do this?"  
_Fine, _the voice says. _I'll just...disappear for a little bit. Soon the Red One will be here, and then we will all be one again, anyway.

_"What exactly _is _the Red One, anyway?" he asks, already forgetting that he has sworn the voice into silence for the moment. When there is no response, he shrugs and starts down the hall again._

_He reaches a point at which the source of the negative wave is unmistakable--it comes from behind the door to his immediate left. And just as he knows this, he also knows that _she _is there._

_He feels a chill run down his spine. As before, he knows that he has no real reason to be afraid...but all the same, the thought that he is about to enter _thePoint,_ the place where the original Mother supposedly cast away the sinners into the abyss a long twenty years ago, fills his heart with a great dread._

_Nonetheless...his other desire, the flower deep within him which has been secretly nurtured for thirty-four years--or however many years it's been--is stronger than dread, and he has no doubt that it will be enough to fuel him, to press him on in the face of whatever he may find on the other side of the door._

_He reaches down...curls his hand around the knob...feels the difficult-to-discern presence of both extreme heat_

_(I'LL KILL YOU I'LL KILL YOU ALL JUST GIVE ME A CHANCE)_

_and unbearable cold_

_(PLEASE HELP ME PLEASE I'M SORRY IT HURTS)_

_and finally, he turns the knob._

Click.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as he entered the lobby, Steven was filled with a sense of almost phobic terror, as if he had been thrust into a room made entirely of spiders. He hated it--it was a filthy feeling that made him afraid to even stand where he was, as if he were inside some kind of malevolent, soulless organism. He also hated the way the floor seemed to _squish _beneath his boots, as if it were made not of tile or metal but something...well,_ meaty._ He couldn't wait to finish what he was doing here so he could finally

_(COME HOME)_

be done with this.

_There's no time left! _Miriam's voice spoke up, once more taking the front seat in his mind. _The madman is there! He's going to kill her!_

"What can I do?" Steven asked, feeling his heart leap into his throat. "There must be _something!_"

_The elevator is too far...you must let me take control._

"What?"

_Just relax, _Miriam said.

"Easy for you to say," Steven muttered. "What do you mean, take control?"

_Just let me work,_ Miriam said, and then Steven had a very strong, unpleasant feeling right in the center of his forehead--a _sucking_ feeling, a _draining_ feeling, like his consciousness was being seeped out of him through some kind of funnel. He saw black shapes beginning to bloom at the edges of his vision, and before he could think twice, he swore up-and-down that he felt somebody hit him from behind with something extremely heavy (even though there was nobody behind him), and four seconds later, he was unconscious.

_Just...trust me, okay?_

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eileen stood there holding the photograph in her hand, completely unaware that the instruments of her destruction (and the thing holding them) were right outside the door. So when she heard the door creak open, though she imagined the worst, she could not have possibly expected what she saw when she turned around.

_He pushes the door forward, guns raised, and finally lays eyes on his quarry. She stands at the far end of the room, with a photograph clutched in her hands, a stupid deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. He grins, opens his mouth to speak, and says_

"Long time no see," the man which looks like Walter but can't possibly _be _Walter--Walter is dead!--says in a conversational tone. He carries two massive revolvers--comically huge, there's no way they can be real--and he turns one of them on her now. "I'm sorry, but I have to do this. Once I've finished, you'll understand."

_Click._

Eileen opens her mouth and tries to scream, but

_nothing comes out of her mouth; she just oh-so-slowly backs away from him, frantically glancing around the room, seeming to look for somewhere to run. But there is nowhere to run--he has her trapped, right where he wants her. She turns to him once more, meeting his gaze, and says_

"You can't be here," she says, as if giving voice to this simple non-fact will somehow bleed it into reality. "You're dead. Henry killed you!"

The madman doesn't seem to be amused--or otherwise affected--by Eileen's rationale. He's here, not dead, and he knows it. So when he raises his gun, Eileen can only curse herself, curse God, curse Henry, curse Walter--this is one of those moments where she feels like God is cheating her, that the impossible has been allowed to happen for the sole purpose of _fucking _her royally. She opens her mouth,

_whether to scream, plead, or curse him, Walter isn't sure, but it doesn't matter because she never has a chance._

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steven wasn't aware of anything until it was all over with, and by that point it was too late for him, anyway...he was just thankful to have that one last chance, that last moment to talk to Walter, to at least try to understand the madness that drove him.

Just as Walter began to pull down on the trigger with his index finger, the room was struck with a sudden, powerful vibration. Walter's aim was thrown off for a split-second--thankfully for Eileen, the split-second during which he chose to fire the shot--and so the bullet went wild, punching a hole in the ceiling just a foot or so above Eileen's head. But that wasn't even the weird part.

Eileen looked up, knowing that she was wasting valuable time but unsure of what _else _to do, where to run, whether to fight back (and if so, _how_). Through the bullethole shone a narrow beacon of the brightest light Eileen had ever seen in her life, blinding her for the moment during which she was looking at it (and for several seconds after). It was during this precious interval that Walter might have been able to cut her down right there, had the newcomer not intervened.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The light seeps into the room, but instead of a minute contribution to the weak illumination in the room, it _fills _the room, blasting to every corner, blinding both Eileen _and _Walter. Eileen falls on her ass, covering her closed eyes with her hands (for even closing her eyes tightly is not enough to block out the light), and Walter drops both of his guns, using his free hand to cover his eyes. He barks a cry of surprised anger--and is that pain Eileen hears in his voice? God, she hopes so--her anger is slowly turning into rage, rage at Walter for catching her like this, rage at God for trying to let her die in such a cheap way.

It's so damned bright, she doesn't know if she'll be able to bear it for much longer. Neither will Walter, but it won't matter _what _happens to him if it happens to her, too. She begins to fear for her own safety...but when her arm finally grows tired and she has to lower it from her closed eyes, she sees that the light has begun to fade. She opens her eyes, hoping to see Walter lying dead on the floor by some miracle of God--that's surely what this is, after all--and instead sees him kneeling on the floor, frantically searching for his dropped instruments of destruction.

"No!" she shouts, and tackles him head-on. The two of them are sent a-tumble, smashing into the door as one mass and then bouncing off of it, rolling across the floor. Walter's elbow connects with her chin during this exchance, and before she knows it he is on top of her, and his fist is coming down on her face, once, twice, thrice, four times, and it's so _heavy,_ she feels like her jaw must be broken! She tries to scream and can't; the wind has been knocked out of her.

_Henry,_ she thinks, her strength waning. _Henry, wherever you are..._

"The Receiver can't help you," Walter says, his voice straining with effort. "He's under wraps. But don't worry. You'll be together before long."

Eileen remembers seeing the ghost of Richard Braintree, remembers running down a flight of stairs with green dirty-brick walls to her left and right...remembers tripping and falling on the pavement...remembers seeing Henry swing the pipe, connecting with the one Braintree was swinging...hearing him calling, _Eileen, go!_ and pointing to the door behind him. Then, for a long moment, wondering if Henry would be following her. She remembered all of this, and felt her heart welling with defeated, terrified anguish.

That's when her eye falls on the bullethole in the ceiling. Well, not _just _the bullethole--the entire _ceiling_ seemed to be cracking up. From the original entry "wound," the ceiling has begun to splinter outward, spiderwebbing cracks in all directions, and beneath those cracks, something great, something terrible, something wondrous, can be seen creeping through.

Walter's hands are closing around her throat, blocking off her air supply. They're closing tighter around her, tighter...tighter...she thinks she can feel her body straining beneath his ungodly grasp, threatening to burst like a tomato should any greater pressure be applied...and that is when the unthinkable happens.

Later, Eileen will remember thinking that this sort of thing only happens in Stephen King movies, right as the hero (or heroine) is about to be killed, that it _never _happens in real life, _never._ It's just too convenient. But all the same, it _does _happen.

The ceiling finally gives way--the cracks have formed a unified front, and together they have passed judgement on the ceiling, for it crumbles and falls down on the struggling inhabitants of the room, showering them (and most of the furniture) with lightweight but sometimes sharp fragments. One such fragment brains Walter on the back of the head, but it doesn't seem to hurt him very much; by now, he's too obsessed, too single-minded, too focused on killing her to think of himself. Later, after this is over and it doesn't matter anymore, he might feel some pain...but not now.

Eileen can only look up into that bright light, and begin to slip out of consciousness.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His body is rushing down, down, down, into the light--a very different experience from what he might have imagined, what with the light being down instead of up, and certainly something he would have commented on in his mind, had he been in control (or even conscious) at the moment--and the light is hiding the night from him, hiding the hideous things which lurk at this depth, the things which dwell in the blackness between worlds, between the cracks in _this _world. The light hides the transition with effortless efficiency, for although Miriam has seen these things for herself, that doesn't mean she wants to see them again--once was enough for eternity, as far as she is concerned. And now, piloting her once-best-friend's body as if it were no more than a vehicle, a battered go-kart--making sure to hold onto the items tucked under his good arm and clasped in his good hand, making sure not to lose them forever in the void between realities--she emerges into the darkness below, out of the valley of light and into the valley of shadow.

In his body, she is standing in the back corner of the room, the only thing standing between "her" and the life-and-death struggle taking place between the Mother and the Executioner--the madman--being the child-sized bed. "Miriam" leans to one side, unable to coax the right half of Steven's body into action, and when "she" feels the pain--_his_ pain--in his broken body when she tries to move it, she understands why he is so eager to be finished. He has come to the realization that he will not leave here alive--if she didn't already know that, she does now.

There are two things she needs to do, and she needs to do them both _right now. _Seeing that this is impossible, she has only one choice. She withdraws into herself (rather, into _Steven's_ self)...

_Steven, _she whispers into the caverns of his mind. _Steven, wake up, now! I need you!_

In the distance, the sound of the fight between Eileen and Walter continues, though drastically slowed. Time seems to have slowed down to an extent; either that, or the process of this exchange is occurring much too fast for time to keep up with.

_Steven!_ she shouts, unable to contain her urgency any longer. _We must hurry! The madman is here! The Executioner is here, and the Red One is on his way! I NEED YOUR HELP!_

But even this does not awaken him; what finally gets through to him is nothing controlled by Miriam, but a sound produced by the Mother herself, Eileen--an agonized squeal, a sign that she is about to suffocate. The madman is choking her to death, having been unable to reach his weapons in time. She hoped to stun him by using the Light, but she didn't expect this.

"What's happening?" Steven asks, using his own mouth. The words come out slightly slurred--_Wuz happuneen--_but Miriam's input comes directly from the part of his brain that controls speech, so she understands everything clearly. In a sense, she _is _him right now.

_I'll stop him,_ Miriam says. _You must give her the items. I'll stop him, and then I'll open the door. But you'll only have a very short time to get through before the madman catches you--you must hurry!_

"What are you saying?" Steven asks, and then he sees the madman and the Mother--Eileen Galvin--in the corner, fighting each other. The madman is obviously winning--the position in which they struggle can only connote two things, and it's certainly not a display of intimacy. "Holy crap!"

_Go, now!_ she screams in his head, rattling him, and before he can react, he's engulfed in an extremely bright flash of light.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eileen is drifting on the edge of unconsciousness--_too close for comfort,_ as her father's favorite figure of speech goes--and she is certain she can feel her neck brusing from Walter's grip. Soon his fingers might just punch right through her neck, and his fingernails might just tear her jugular open, and she might just bleed to death right here at the bottom of nowhere.

But before she can fully articulate anything further (not that she would necessarily have had the chance to), Walter rises to his feet--seemingly of his own accord, although quite suddenly--and flies backward across the room, slamming into the medicine cabinet. It splinters beneath his weight, spilling cartons and bottles and countless individual pills--"bagglers," as the fellows at McDoobie's might call them. She has time to see these things but not to really _see _them; they are there before her, but later, she will not remember all the details she is observing at this moment. Her mind is sharpened by reflex, just as it will later be dulled by shock. She manages to climb to a sitting position and examine the damage on her throat--and to think, _That's gonna leave a mark_--but not much else.

She almost screams--would have, were she able--when she feels an arm slip around her shoulder and several objects fall into her lap.

"I know this isn't the best time," a slurred voice says to her--_I know dissaint d'bes time--_ "but these are for you. You've got to take them and get out of here."

"Who--" Eileen tries to speak, but she is seized by a fit of hacking coughs. Her windpipe must be bruised. "Who...are you?"

"It's me," the voice says, and its owner tilts Eileen's chin upward. There, in front of her, stands the familiar face of Father Steven Denton, who, just a few hours ago, saved her life after the luckiest car-accident in the world (lucky on her part, at least). But he was not the same man, not anymore--his formerly beautiful white hair was stained with brownish clots of blood and sweat, his face was _caked _with the stuff, and the right half of his body hung limp, useless. He looked like he'd been run over by a truck.

She voiced this sentiment to him.

"Close," he says, again slurred. In his head, he curses his traitor mouth. "Car."

Eileen misinterprets the statement as _close car, _perhaps a misrepresentation of _close call._

"What are these?" Eileen says, grabbing one of the items in her lap--a book with some dark-colored binding--and the two of them are completely oblivious of the fact that, less than twenty feet away, Walter Romero Sullivan and Miriam Karlyle are engaging in a life-and-death struggle all too similar to the one between Eileen and Walter which has just recently concluded. They are oblivious to the formless mass of bright white light which clings to Walter's upper body like a straight jacket of pure light, squeezing him as tight as possible, swinging him around, bashing him repeatedly into the corner of the room as he tries--first vainly, then with gradually increasing efficiency--to fight back. They are oblivious to the dent in the wall, which deepens each time Miriam slams his head into it. They are oblivious to Walter's growing rage, which will soon be too great even for Miriam's luminescent form to contain.

"There's no time," Steven says, putting his hand on the book beneath which the cup and jar reside. "You must take these things to the others. They'll figure out the rest. Just...please, you have to do this."

"What others?" Eileen says doubtfully, though she takes the book in one hand.

"Henry," Steven says. "Henry and the girl and the detective. They're all here."

"_Henry?_" Eileen shouts. "He's _here?_"

"No tah..." he stops, closes his eyes, obviously tense...and repeats himself, this time devoid of that irritable slur: "No time! Miriam will open the way. You must go!"

"But--"

_(HERE, GET READY)_

"There," Steven says, helping Eileen to her feet. "She's going to release him, and then she's going to open the door. There's not going to be any time--when you see it, you must go. Don't look back, just keep running until you reach the other side."

"What about you?" Eileen holds the items awkwardly, like a schoolgirl who has too many textbooks and no bag in which to carry them.

"I'll be right behind you," he says. "But you must hurry."

_(ALMOST---TIME--GET--)_

"Here it comes," Steven says. "She's going to..."

_(NOW! GO NOW!)_

The light which has kept Walter at bay thus far simply peels off of him; he sheds it like a worn-out jacket, and it shoots across the room, blasting a hole in the wall just behind the bed, directly across from the room's only entrance. The entire wall explodes outward, and beyond it appears a vast, seemingly endless field of light.

"Go!" Steven says, and pushes Eileen towards the door. "Now!" He can only pray that she will heed his command.

She hesitates for one tiny second, and Steven fears that it's one second too many--Walter doesn't even bother rounding the bed to catch her, he simply makes as if to clear it. Eileen starts for the "doorway" that Miriam has opened--seemingly _become_--but she's not going to make it.

"No!" Steven cries out, and leaps forward, seizing Walter's boot in mid-flight; Walter continues on for a moment, reaching out for Eileen with his own hand, but then he falls flat on his face, banging it on the headboard of the tiny child's bed. The two of them come crashing down, Steven on top of Walter, and Steven has time to cast one more glance towards Eileen. As he'd hoped, she is disappearing into the distance, off into that endless field of light.

He can only hope that Miriam will show her the way.

Eileen's shape fades for a few moments more, and then the light begins to fade. Before Steven or Walter can take any further measures to follow her, the light is gone--taking Eileen with it--and there is only a long black hole in the wall, leading out into the darkness between this land and whatever lies beyond.

"Mother_fucker,_" Walter says, and shoves Steven off of him with both hands. The Father flies off of him, soars through the air and hits the wall just to the left of the door through which the Hunter and his Prey came only a few moments ago. The wood splinters beneath him, driving into his legs and back, causing him to cry out.

He knows what is coming. He knows...and he is ready. For then there will be peace, peace at last.

Walter flips onto his feet with the grace of a gymnast--the man's acrobatics are unbelievable--and races across the room, pinning Steven to the wall by the throat. He stares into Steven's closed eyes, seeming to try and pry them open just by looking at them. "Look at me."

But Steven does not acknowledge him; he is muttering under his breath.

"Look at me," Walter says, never taking his eyes off of Steven's lids. His short black hair, though doused with sweat and trace amounts of blood, remains absurdly still, the same as when it was first styled.

Steven continues to mumble...but, Walter realizes, he's not mumbling at all--he's _praying._

"Aww," Walter says, "how sweet. Kissing your idol goodbye? Your tribute to victory over truth?"  
Steven does not answer, does not acknowledge.

"That's what your faith is," Walter continues. "That's all _any_ faith is, anymore. It's about winning. It's not about truth." He jerks Steven forward quite suddenly, then smashes him against the wall again.

Startled, Steven opens his eyes for a second, losing stride in his prayer...but then he closes them again and continues. He is likely suffering from unbearable pain, probably from his ruined right side. Oh, well. Walter can make him talk. Make him squeal like a pig, if he so desires.

"Go ahead and pray," Walter says. "You're dead, anyway."

"I wasn't praying for my life," Steven says, apparently finished. He opens his eyes and meets Walter's.

"What?" Walter blinks. "Aww, were you praying for me? You want God to forgive me for what I'm about to do?"

"I suppose that would be Fatherly of me, yes," Steven says, "but actually, no, I wasn't."

"Then what?"

"You don't need to know," Steven says. "Just go ahead, kill me. Wipe me away. I'm no more than a bug to you anyway, right? You demon, you impostor. How dare you claim to search for the truth?"

Walter slams him against the wall--three times, this time--hard enough to startle an intense cry of pain from him. But Walter doesn't do it out of anger. He just likes to see that stupid smirk wiped off of the Father's face; the self-righteous bastard. No, it's not anger, it's justice. "For all the people who have ever been cut down in the name of religion...I am their savior. I am their warrior. I fight for a cause. I fight against the tyranny of religion. Religion is not faith, it's alliance. You ally yourself with a certain belief--you decide that's the way you think the universe works, that that's the way you're supposed to live, and that every other interpretation is wrong. You make that alliance, and then you decide that anything that might challenge your beliefs is something that needs to be done away with, because you don't want to change the way you think--you don't want to have to acknowledge that maybe, just _maybe,_ it wasn't _they _who were wrong all along, but _you._ You don't want to acknowledge the possibility that _you're _the ones who have been wrong since the day Christianity was founded; you don't want to acknowledge the possibility that it is _you,_ with the blind allegiance you call faith, _you,_ who crusaded in the Medieval times, killing everyone who wouldn't submit to you, _you_ who are wrong, _you _who are to blame." He leans very close, almost nose-to-nose with the Father. "Maybe God's not punishing _us_ for not accepting _you_ and your beliefs. Maybe God's punishing _you _for doing things in his name, things he would _never _permit were he to stand before you."

"Don't blame me for what others have done," Steven says. "I may not have lived my life as well as I should have--God knows I've made mistakes, some intentional, some accidental--and for that I was greatly sorry; it's a thing I cannot change. I may love my neighbor but not my enemy. I've had my bad days--I've had my periods where I doubt my faith, where I wonder the same things you do. But I get over it, all of it--I move on. Doubt isn't a lack of faith--doubt is the _foundation_ of faith. These past few days...I've found that it's only doubting my faith in the first place that saved it. I was able to question my beliefs, to examine them in context with the rest of my life, and because of that, I've arrived at one conclusion: That I really have no regrets at all. For everything I've done has come down to this moment, and when the moment arrived, I did what I had to. I saved someone's life. I've served my purpose. So...I don't think it matters if you make mistakes, if you are misled. That's human nature. Sometimes, it doesn't even look like you're following the path, when really, you are. The only thing one needs to remember is not to claim faith when there is none. There are times when you believe...and there are times when you don't. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Tell that to George Rosten," Walter says, and has to fight to keep from slamming the Father until he spits one final wad of blood, expels one last breath, and finally dies. "Tell that to everyone who's ever killed someone in the name of God, and who's honestly believed they were doing good. They'd laugh in your face."

"They don't believe shit," Steven spits. "They say they do...but I've been down that road. blind faith is no different from Nationalism. It's using something as a shield to defend your _real_ thought processes, to justify your actions both to yourself and to others. It's a tool of the weak."

"Though we seem to agree on that note," Walter says, "I've heard enough. Die now."

"Go ahead and kill me," Steven says. "But you'll never see God. Never."

Walter howls; he turns, and hurls Steven across the room, where he lands on the floor and slides until he hits the wall. Good _God,_ the man is so _strong!_ From where has he gotten such strength?

Steven tries to roll over, but Walter is already on top of him--more precisely, his foot is planted firmly at the base of the Father's spine.

"You don't know anything about anything," Walter says. "I've worked my whole life in complete sincerity towards my cause. I've got more sincerity in my pinky finger than you have in your whole body."

"You just want to kill me because I'm different," Steven says. "You're set in your beliefs, and what I say challenges them. You kill me because I don't believe you."

Walter hesitates.

"That's what it amounts to, doesn't it?" Steven asks, barely conscious. His voice is beginning to slur again--_Thazz wha ammouns too, donnit?_

Walter does not answer; he simply reaches for one of his guns, which he has spotted lying just beneath the head of the bed. He kneels down, takes it in one hand, pulls back the hammer, and returns to Steven, never taking his foot from its vantage point on the man's back.

Steven regards Walter with fear, contempt...and just the faintest tinge of pity. He will never understand; _cannot_ understand. "You're a victim of your own prejudice," he says. He opens his mouth to speak more, but a gunshot silences him forever.

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Walter sits on the bed, both guns holstered at his side, his arms wrapped around himself. Even though it isn't extremely cold in the room--the never-ending path of light has long since disappeared, but in its place is that deep, heated darkness, extending backward into the oblivion between reality and unreality--he shivers uncontrollably.

_But you'll never see God. Never._

Walter becomes enraged at the thought, at the Father having the nerve to say that. He wishes he'd kept the bastard alive a bit longer, so he could take out more of his rage on him...but what's done is done. Although the Father has been put to his eternal rest, his remarks live on.

"I _will_ see God," Walter says, rubbing his sweaty hands over his stubbly face. "I _will._ I've come too far to give up now."

_Don't worry about it,_ the voice in his head whispers. _We still have one chance. God will understand._

"Yes," Walter says. "If God is real...then he will understand. Or she." He tries to smile, and finds that he can't. The silence--both in the room and in his normally busy mind--is too uneasy to allow for a smile.

_He is here,_ the voice whispers, and then there is a sound from beyond the wall, from deep within the heated darkness that might just be hell itself: a slithering sound, not wet and slimy but smooth and metallic.

Walter rises to his feet, turning towards the sound. He does not reach for his gun, because he knows he will not need it. The time has come; the Red One has arrived.

The long shape emerges from the hole behind the wall, slithering just a few feet inside the room before stopping. It's much too large to fit into the room.

Walter approaches the worm-shaped thing, observing the segments which make up its oddly futuristic appearance. He stands at the front of the creature's length and places his hand on the familiar mark located in the center of its featureless "face"--a squiggly Red Eye, which seems to have been drawn on with acryllic paint by a talentless kindergartener.

_It's time,_ the voice in his head reiterates for him, as if he should not yet understand it.

"We will be one."

Metalhead emits a long, low screech. The satisfaction in the sound is undeniable.

_Are you ready to finish this?  
_"Yes."

_They are headed to the Hole,_ the Walter in his mind says. _That's where she's going to do it._

"Of course."

_The Mother thinks she's won._

"Apparently," Walter says. "I guess...all we have left to do now is wait. Watch, and wait."

_That's right,_ the Other Walter, the him that isn't him except he is, agrees. _Watch...and wait._

At long last, a ghost of a smile is allowed to tiptoe across Walter's lips...and he is satisfied.

He is One again, at long last.

END OF CHAPTER 30


	31. The Arrival

**Chapter 31**

**The Arrival**

_"Just when you think you're in control_

_Just when you think you've got a hold_

_Just when you get on a roll_

_Here it goes, here it goes, here it goes again..."_

"Here It Goes Again,_" OK Go_

_(Oh No)_

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Honestly, he didn't know _what_ to think.

Yes, he believed that Henry was involved in the mess with Walter Sullivan--the odds of something otherwise occurring were so far-out they didn't even bear consideration--but that wasn't the reason he was so angry. Yes, he felt betrayed and angry at Henry for manipulating him...but it was an empty anger. It wasn't anything like the real anger, the real frustration, that boiled the innermost regions of his heart. He was angry--_furious_--but not at any one person in the room. He was angry at...well, he supposed you might call it being angry at God. For allowing John Philip Herring to kick the bucket in such a stupid, clearly preventable manner. Angry at James, for pulling it off.

_Technically,_ Douglas' mind wandered, _his death wasn't in vain. Now that James has done what he came to do, he should be leaving us alone for a little while._ He had this thought, at least, to provide _some _comfort...but the thought of everything Herring had left behind was enough to set the ball of anger bouncing around his brain again.

"It's quiet in here," Heather said, her voice slurred. She must have dozed off as they were pulling out of Lakeview's scenic front, and he must've been too wound-up to notice. In any case, she was awake now. Too bad he had nothing to say.

Still no noise from the back seat; Henry was staring longingly out one fogged-up window, unnaturally calm--at least, on the outside. Douglas had a feeling that either Henry was the most cool-headed person he'd ever met, or there was a lot more stirring up under the lid of that pot than he could tell. He wondered how long that would last before Henry tried something else.

_I'll have to keep a close eye on you,_ he thought, glancing up into the rearview mirror, unnoticed by Henry. _You're a lot smarter than you look, but not as smart as you could be. If you were, you wouldn't have been caught by the same guy twice in two days._

Freedom wasn't so great if it was impossible to maintain, Douglas mused. So why would Henry even waste the effort, then? For one small moment--just enough for it to brush gently across the back of his subconscious--he wondered if Henry had _intended_ to be captured, then escape, and then be captured again. That maybe, somehow, he and Walter were still screwing Doulgas even now.

_That's absurd_. _Nobody would be able to calculate that far ahead. He couldn't have known enough in advance to plan that out. Maybe if they planned it after the first arrest, but...no, that's not the case. Because Herring and I were with them both the whole time--they were never alone together, not once. There's no way they could plan it._

Whatever. None of that mattered now. All that mattered now was wrapping this whole ordeal up, and then bringing Henry back to town. He supposed he still had a duty to hunt down Walter...but the way things were panning out, he didn't know if that would be possible.

He glanced up at Henry again. Something he'd said earlier was bothering Douglas; something about Walter. How he'd supposedly been shot by this 'Other Walter' over near the apartments. He knew it wasn't true--_couldn't _be, if they were the same person--but even so...he didn't know whether or not to chalk up these increasingly odd circumstances to Henry's impossibly sharp criminal mind, or to the possibility that maybe, just _maybe,_ Henry was telling just a bit of the truth.

_Then there's the matter of the body in 302,_ Douglas wondered. _Where'd that come from?_

Well, _that_ was a problem the forensics could take care of. As soon as the DNA test results came back, the APD could identify the body, putting themselves one step closer towards the final solution to all of this. Then it would be over, and they could finally rest. Douglas found it hard to believe that the Walter Sullivan case had gone on as long as it had before being closed...and he was even more disturbed by how far recent events had pushed him towards re-opening the case. It would seem that it was still going on to this day, and had never really been solved at all. For one, the body of the original murderer--the jailhouse suicide--was no longer available. It had been stolen right out of the grave a while back, and _that_ case had gone nowhere. Until now. If the body in 302 turned out to be the same one that had disappeared from the gravesite awhile back, then Douglas would have his verdict--the thread of truth running beneath the weave of Henry's complicated story would be severed.

And there _was_ a thread of _something,_ that was for sure. The only way to find where it stopped would be to keep playing things out the way they were already happening and follow it, see where it led. Only time would tell for sure...yet time was something so valuable now, something they had so little of. And he still had Heather to worry about, on top of all that.

Enough thinking, though--they were here. Douglas pulled the sedan into the parking lot in front of the Silent Hill Historical Society--there were only four spaces, so narrow that he might not have been able to get in if any other cars had been present--and got out, making sure to keep an eye on Henry as he did so. He didn't want the guy making a break for it, as hard as it would be in his shoes.

The museum itself was nothing as grand as Douglas had imagined--just an oblong gray building with a "ye-olde-English"-style banner hanging just above the door which read _Silent Hill Historical Society. _The only feature of note was the front door, which seemed oddly out of place--unusually tall and green, inlaid with hundreds of tiny diamond shapes. The handle appeared to be newly-polished brass--the headlights from Douglas' car reflected bright light off of it, temporarily requiring him to shield his eye with one hand.

"Where are you going?" Henry asked, as if responding directly to the detective's first thought.

"Nowhere," Douglas said, unaware of the truth hidden in that statement, and rounded the car to Heather's side. He didn't like the idea of leaving her in the car with that madman for one second. When he reached her door, she was already fumbling for the handle on the inside. He opened it and helped her out, catching her when she slid and almost fell to her knees on the concrete.

"You can't just _leave_ me here," Henry said. "What if Walter comes?"

"Walter's not..." Douglas started to say, but was suddenly distracted.

"What?" Heather asked, obviously stirred. Perhaps she'd heard it too? Or felt it?

"Listen," Douglas said.

Henry opened his mouth, and Douglas raised a finger to him, as if daring him to speak--a dare Henry would not accept.

_Thump. Thump. THump. THUmp. THUMp._

Something was coming. Closer and closer.

"What's that?" Heather said. "Douglas, what is that?"

"I don't know," Douglas said, "but something tells me we should get inside, pronto." With that, he started for the museum's front door, hesitating only when Henry cried out from the back seat of the car.

"Hey!" Henry said, raising his voice but still not really yelling. He sounded like he might want to add something to an order at Burger King, or something. "What about me?"

Douglas started to say _what _about _you?_ but then he realized that whatever was causing that noise might be dangerous to Henry...and he needed Henry, or at least Henry's _body_, to show to the APD when it came time to explain himself. He stood Heather by the door, allowing her to place a hand against it. "Stay here for a second." Before giving her a chance to answer, he jogged to the back passenger door and opened it, taking Henry out by one elbow--rather forcefully--and accidentally bumping his head on the roof.

"Ow," Henry said heartlessly, and followed the detective. He made no visible effort to break away--he simply seemed glad to be out of that confined space.

Off in the night, that loud sound continued: _THUMP. THUMP._ It was no longer in the distance; it was very close.

Douglas reached for the handle, desparately afraid that it would not budge...but sure enough, it creaked open without effort. Not only was it not locked, it appeared to be _broken._ "Get inside," Douglas urged.

But before anyone could do much of anything, the source of that thundering crash was on them. Douglas didn't see exactly what it was--he assumed Henry didn't, either--but he could definitely see _something,_ something _big,_ right on the farthest border of his line of sight. The thick, oppressive darkness didn't allow much in the way of detail, but something--about the size and girth of a very large tree trunk, and colored a dull gray--came crashing down on the other side of the street, crunching through the pavement and splintering cracks across it in several directions. The thing lifted up, vanishing back into the blackness as quickly as it had first emerged, and then another object of similar girth repeated the act, several meters to the left of the first. Soon the first one reappeared, much farther down the road, and then it, too, disappeared, leaving only the torrential echo of its landfall. Soon, even that was gone.

"What was that?" Henry asked in a throaty whisper.

"I have no idea," Douglas said.

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The lobby of the museum was even smaller than the outside had suggested; there was barely standing room for the three of them in front of the door, thanks to an oppressive desk that protruded from the left-hand wall and extended about halfway out into the room. Two more doors stood at the far end of the room, one to the left and one straight ahead. Douglas crossed the brown-and-black wide-checkered floor towards the left-hand door and, when it wouldn't work, tried the straight-ahead door. It opened as easily as the front entrance had.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Douglas said, hesitating to enter the next room. "Getting in here is too easy. If this is where he 'lives,' or does whatever he does...why would he just let us in like this?"  
"What are you talking about?" Henry asked, managing to sound not frustrated but sincerely inquisitive. His eye twitched, as if he had been about to look somewhere in the room and had suddenly decided not to.

"James," Heather said.

"Why are we here?" Henry followed up.

"You should know," he said. "You talked to him, didn't you? He should have told you about us."

"Well," Henry said, leaning against the counter just a few feet away from where Douglas stood, "he did talk about you guys, but he was really vague. Spoke in riddles a lot. I didn't really understand a lot of what he was saying."

"Like what?" Heather asked, placing one reassuring hand on the edge of the reception desk, and faced what she presumed to be the direction from which Henry was speaking.

"For one, he talked more about himself, and about Walter." He shifted, trying vainly to reach a comfortable position in spite of his cuffed hands. "He kept saying things like, 'I didn't know Walter had anything to do with this.' And he called me the Receiver, too. Just like Walter did."

"Receiver?" Heather asked. "Like...telephone receiver?"

"Receiver of Wisdom," Henry amended. "I'm not sure what it's supposed to mean, just that it's got something to do with the ritual Walter was--and apparently, still is--performing. I'm supposed to be the last of his victims. Eileen's the Mother--number 20--and I'm number 21, the Receiver."

"What do you mean, number 21?"

"You know how Walter killed 10 people in 10 days, about 10 years ago? Well, that was part of this ritual he was obsessed with--something that was supposed to descend the Holy Mother from Heaven."

Heather's breath stopped at the mention of the "Holy Mother."

"Is something wrong?" Henry asked, looking genuinely concerned.

"No," Heather said without hesitation.

"Holy Mother," Douglas interrupted. "Isn't that what Claudia kept calling you? Holy Mother, Mother of God, something like that?"

Henry shifted his gaze from Heather to Douglas, and back to Heather again, clearly intrigued.

"Yes," Heather said. "But I think Claudia was more of a renegade, set apart from most of the Order's traditional beliefs. She believed that the part of me that used to be Alessa would somehow come to life and birth God. Most followers of the Order wouldn't have acted so fiercely upon their beliefs as Claudia did."

"She never killed anyone for a ritual?" Henry asked. "Are you sure?"

"No, I'm sure," Heather confirmed. "Claudia only killed two people, and neither of them were ritualistic murders."

Henry sensed a greater depth to that statement, and opted not to pry further in that direction. "Are they both from the same religion? I mean, is it possible that they aren't from the same faith?"

"I'm pretty sure they were about the same," Heather said. "From what I've researched on this town's history, there are multiple branches to the cult, the Order--or the Organization, as Stanley called it. Sort of like different branches of Christianity. They all have the same basic beliefs, but there's one major difference--how they believe God will be born."

"That explains it, then," Henry said. "They're from separate branches. This woman--"

"Claudia," Heather provided.

"Right," Henry said, nodding. "This Claudia, she was from one branch that believed in this method of 'awakening' the Holy Mother, whereas Walter was from a branch that believed the 21 Sacraments would descend her."

"I suppose," Heather said. "But something...well, something about that just doesn't feel right."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," Heather said. "I guess it's because I don't understand this Walter person. There have always been rumors around here that he was a prominent member of the Organization, but I've never heard any solid evidence to back that."

"He _was_ raised in the Wish House orphanage," Henry said. "I don't know if you read Joseph's article in Concord or not--if I recall correctly, it was published nationally a couple of years ago--but that place was a front for this 'Organization.' They probably had him deadlocked at a young age."

Heather was shaking her head. "That place...I'm glad it burned down. The things they did there...the horror stories I heard, they were terrible."

Henry opted to neglect mention of his involvement in the circumstances which had resulted in the burning down of Wish House.

"We can have this discussion later," Douglas said, clearly irritable. "Now that that thing is gone from outside, you can wait right here, and Heather and I will take care of business in here." He started towards Henry, who backed up a step.

"What?" Heather asked, regarding Douglas with a look that was quite disturbing due to her lack of ocular function.

"He's a criminal," Douglas said, hesitating. "And no matter what he says, I have good reason not to trust him."

"But Douglas, he--"

"Do you expect me to put myself in a potentially dangerous situation with _this _guy covering my back? That's like a guard giving a prisoner his service pistol and then turning the other way."

Henry's eyes were full of fire, but he wisely chose to keep his mouth shut. Had he spoken at that point, Douglas would likely have gone off on him, and the deal would thusly have been sealed.

"I don't believe that," Heather said. "That he's a criminal."

"You haven't seen what I have," Douglas said.

"No," Heather agreed, "but he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would kill someone."

Henry wanted badly to speak, but he could not affirm the girl's statements, much as he wanted to--_hadn't _he killed someone before? Hadn't he done just that, up in Room 302, just the other day? No; this conversation was in Heather's hands.

"Yeah," Douglas said, "well, according to everyone who knew him, Walter wasn't too big on killing people, either."

"Let's say you're right," Heather said, seeming to ignore that last remark. "Why would he want to come here with you?"

"Secluded area," Douglas said without hesitation. "He convinced me that he could prove his innocence if I brought him here--_against_ everything I stand for, and at the risk of my job, my good name, and possibly my life--and then, when he saw his chance, he made a break for it. Walter, too."

"Wait," Heather said. "I'm confused. Earlier, you guys said there were _two _Walters?"

"It's a long story," Henry said, speaking softly so as to avoid any unnecessary connotations.

"There are two _bodies,_" Douglas said. "According to his story, they somehow both belong to guys who look identical and are named Walter. One's dead, and one's running around here, alive and well. We--"

"Not well," Henry corrected. "He's been shot. He probably needs help."

"That comes later," Douglas said. "When we put this right, bring everything back to normal..._that's _when we worry about Walter. For now, he's not my top priority."

"You're a cop," Henry said, "aren't you? It's your duty to protect people!"

Douglas turned away, scoffing. "You're right. I protect people _from _jerks like Walter." He finally proceeded into the next room.

Heather took Henry's hand. "Well, _I _trust you," she said. "I don't know if that's smart or not--no offense--but I do. Call it intuition." Then, turning to Douglas: "We really should bring him with us. He'll almost certainly die if we just leave him here."

Henry said nothing. He could only hope that her prying had gotten through to Douglas. Maybe, if he could at the very least convince the detective that he wasn't a _murderer--_which he had apparently accomplished with Heather--they could work up from there. Maybe he really _could _exhonerate himself, if only the chance to do so would present itself. But for now, he would just have to use Heather as a crowbar to get under the detective's defenses.

As they passed into the next room, Douglas stopped and turned towards Henry, and whispered something into his ear. "I don't want you to get the impression that I trust you for one minute. If you try anything--_anything_ at all--I won't hesitate to cut you down. I won't let you hurt her."

Henry regarded the detective with a stare that said all the things he couldn't, and then they were able to proceed.

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The next room was centered around a long display case, and surrounded on each wall by several pictures, both paintings and photos. This would be where the museum exhibits took place, then--a little tribute to the history of a little town.

The lighting in the room was poor, but that didn't stop Douglas and Henry from examining the pictures. Neither of them had a real reason for doing so, just that it seemed right--at least this way, they were _looking,_ doing something. The payoff became evident, however, as soon as Henry came to the picture on the far wall--a large painting, covering much of the wall itself.

"This is certainly creepy," Henry mumbled.

Douglas looked over from the picture he'd been studying--a photo of the first director of Brookhaven Hospital--and became fixated as well. "What the...?"

"What's it supposed to be, I wonder?" Henry asked nobody, not really expecting an answer.

"What is it?" Heather asked, feeling along the glass display case in the center of the room, following Henry's and Douglas' voices until she stood beside them.

Henry described it to her: It was a photo-realistic painting of a man in a very strange costume--what appeared to be a potato-sack tunic and a large traffic-cone on his head--and toting a heavy-looking spear, standing in front of a grotesque scenery. In the background, several cages dangled from chains attached to the ceiling, and headless (and limbless) human torsos hung fixated within said cages. The whole painting had a yellowish-red tint--much too similar to that of James' alternate world to be a coincidence.

Heather shivered.

"You think..." Henry started.

"What?" Douglas asked.

"You think that maybe...I don't know, maybe this is related to that James guy, somehow?"

"How do you figure?"

"I don't know," Henry admitted. "It's not so much a logical thing as...well, it just seems _James,_ in a way. The color, the mood...the meaning, insofar as there is one."

"Listen to my art critics," Heather joked--something she might not have done, were she still in possession of her sight--but nobody laughed, and she fell quiet again.

"I see what you mean," Douglas said. "It looks...a lot like that place we were in earlier. And the cages...they're not exactly the same, but they're similar to the one we found that body in." He turned to Heather. "Remember, you said it was James' body?"

"Whoa," Henry said, "what now?"

Heather stepped in between them. "It's hard to explain," she said. "Basically, the James that's been stalking us isn't the 'real' James. It's an image of him. Somehow, whatever power works here has taken the essence of James out of that body and placed it into a golem, something much stronger, made from materials not of this world."

"How do you know this?" Henry asked.

"Long story," Heather said, sighing nervously. She was getting really twitchy, all of a sudden. "Listen, we should probably keep moving, try to get this over with before too long."

Douglas regarded her with a look that sent a chill down Henry's spine--he now understood why Douglas didn't trust him. The guy didn't even trust _Heather._ There was no mistaking that look--it was a look that said _I know you're up to something, and I'm gonna find out what, so help me God._ He wondered if Douglas might pose a potential danger to one--or both--of them, Henry himself or Heather, and thought about asking Douglas to take the cuffs off, but then decided against it. He didn't want to make any moves that might indicate a desire to flee or to hurt one of them. For now, it was probably safe to operate on the assumption that the detective was relatively unstable, and that he was capable of some real damage.

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The third (and final, as all the other rooms were inaccessible without use of heavy force) room, reached via a door directly across the room from the painting of the thing Douglas had dubbed "Traffic Cone Man", was also the least remarkable, at least at first. It had the same wide-tile floors and the same brown stucco walls as the other rooms, and it was also lined with pictures (though these consisted solely of abstract paintings), and was otherwise empty.

Heather was the first to speak: "It's here," she said, and Douglas felt her grow limp in his arms.

"What's here?" Douglas said. His mind was conjuring images of the large, unseen thing that had walked by the driveway moments ago.

"The Hole," Heather said, emphasizing it in a way that made the capitalized "H" unmistakable. "It's here, in this room."

"Is that where he lives?" Douglas said.

"Yes," Heather said, and broke away from him. She began to feel all along the walls, as if looking for a secret passage that belonged between the pages of a _Batman and Robin _comic book. "It's so close...I can feel it. It's cold. Like a draft."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Is she okay?" he whispered to Douglas, who responded with a disencouraging look.

"Wait," Heather said, freezing in place. She remained perfectly still that way for almost a minute--as did Douglas and Henry, silent with anticipation. Then: "Wait...something's coming."

"Is it a monster?" Douglas asked, reaching for his pistol. His forehead was sweating a little bit in spite of the cold night air.

"I...I don't _think_," Heather said. "I can feel it...it's a consciousness, in-between. I can feel other things, too, right at the edge, but...no, I don't think it's one of them."

"Who's 'them?'" Douglas asked. "The monsters?"

"The in-betweeners," Heather said. "That's what Stanley called them, anyway. I don't know if they have a real name. They're the things that live in the secret worlds, outside the natural design."

Henry felt a chill run down his spine; to hear the very fabric of reality spoken of in such a foreign way made him feel like an alien in his own skin. She made it sound as if this were no more than a video game, or a movie, or another such work of fiction.

"Here...get back!" Heather said, and pulled away from the wall. "It's coming through, right here!"

Henry opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by a loud, obnoxious thrashing sound, coming from the next room, which caused him to reflexively hunch over and try to throw his hands up over his head, only to be painfully stopped from doing so by his cuffs. Douglas leaned down slightly, but for a different reason--he he now had his gun drawn and was ready for action.

The wall before which Heather had been standing was then bent inward by a sudden, immensely powerful force, spiderwebbing tiny cracks outward in all directions.

Heather was right; something was coming through. Something _big._

"Stand back," Douglas said, raising his gun. "Get Heather back out of here."

Henry tried to take Heather's arm, but she pulled away. "No! We have to be here!"

"What? Why--"

Before he could proceed any further, the wall exploded inward, showering the three of them with large chunks of plaster and wooden framework--thankfully, none of which was large enough to cause significant injury--and a bright light spilled forth from the space beyond the walls, filling the room with blinding luminescence.

Henry squeezed his eyes shut, but even that wasn't enough to keep the light out; he wished like hell he could cover his eyes with his hands. He almost opened his eyes to see if Douglas and Heather were moving, and decided that he didn't want to look into the light directly (or at all, for that matter) for fear of going blind. It was certainly bright enough; the extremity of it reminded Henry of a high-school physics class he'd taken, where the teacher had taken a tiny fragment of a certain element (he couldn't remember which) and ignited it, producing a glare of light so bright that it hurt to look at it. This was like that, only on a colossal scale.

Then, Henry heard something that both chilled and excited the hell out of him: a voice, calling from the distance. A _familiar _voice. "Is that...?"

"_Henry!_" the voice called, and before he knew it, Henry was pelted with something extremely heavy and sent crashing onto the floor, the wind knocked out of him.

Henry tried to speak, but could not summon the prerequisite amount of breath. Instead, he settled for a choked whisper: _Eileen?_

"What the _hell?_" he heard Douglas shout. "Where did _she _come from?"

Henry opened his eyes, sensing that the smothering light had receded, and saw Eileen, sitting on top of him in a position that would have been considered comic (or perhaps erotic, if that was one's taste) under other circumstances: straddling him with her arms on his shoulders and a fiendish look on her face.

"It's...it's you, Eileen!" Henry said. "You're alive!"

"You, too!" Eileen rolled off of him and she helped him to his feet. "I have so much to tell you!"

"That's good," Douglas said, "because I have a lot of questions to ask you."

Eileen turned to the detective. "Mr. Cartland? What are you doing here?"

It was only then that Douglas recognized Eileen as the woman he'd approached the day before, asking about Henry. She'd said he was at the library, or something. "Ms. Galvin?"

"What's going on?" Eileen asked.

In the corner, Heather was laughing giddily, as if some great tragedy had just been narrowly averted.

Shaking his head, Henry met Eileen's gaze. "Everything's gone crazy. Walter's been shot, and--"

"Walter's coming," she said, her face growing cold and stern.

"What?"

"He was chasing me," she said. "Thanks to Father Steven, I was able to get away, but...I don't think he, um..."

Henry closed his eyes, recalling Father Steven from the church he'd gone to the other day--seemingly on impulse at the time, but now he was beginning to see that it had been anything but.

"Father Steven?" Douglas asked. "From South Ashfield? What's he doing here?"

"You know him?" Eileen asked. "He brought me here. He was on his way, and I, uh, hitched a ride with him."

"He was...a friend of mine's preacher," Douglas said. "What happened to him?"

"I'm not sure," Eileen said, "but when I left, Walter...Walter had him pretty bad. I don't think he made it."

Douglas could only stare at her, eyes wide.

"I don't know for sure, though," Eileen said. "I mean, it's possible that he made it."

Douglas did not answer; how strange, that this town was taking the lives of people who were close to the people he was close to! First Herring, and now this...

"Douglas," Henry said, turning to the detective, "this is Eileen. She's the one Walter's trying to kill. If he kills her, then I'll be next."

Douglas frowned.

"You said it was your duty to protect people from Walter," Henry said. "Well, I'm asking you to prove it. If you protect her, you won't even need to worry about me--you can forget about me altogether, in fact. Walter will only come after me if he gets her, first." _I think, _he neglected to add.

Heather joined them at last, her giggling fit subsiding for the moment. She made as if to wipe a tear from her eye and then, seeing it was only the ghost of a now useless gesture, dropped her hand to her side. "It sounds like this Walter person is in our way, now, too."

Douglas glanced from her to Eileen to Henry and back to her again. He didn't know what to say; it would seem as if, regardless of all else, there really _was _a maniac named Walter running around the town trying to kill people. He felt both foolish and glad at the same time--foolish because, even now, he still _wanted _this to all be a lie, to be a cover-up for something much simpler and easier to deal with...but glad because this new development lended credibility to parts of Henry's story. And if Henry's story turned out to be true, after all, then there would be no reason for Douglas to worry about Henry trying anything "funny." While it wouldn't exactly mean he could _relax_, per se, it would certainly a step in the right direction.

"I...I don't know _what _to think anymore," he said, scratching his head. He had long since re-holstered his pistol, freeing both hands once again.

"It doesn't matter," Heather said.

Douglas looked into the place that had once been her eyes...saw the gate behind which something terrible lurked, waiting for the right time to show itself. The kid knew too much; that was the truth. He no longer trusted her entirely, and with each passing remark (such as that little nugget about the "in-betweeners"), he found himself trusting her less...and less...and less. He _wanted_ to trust her badly, and if he weren't a cop, he just might...but his investigative instinct prevented him from accepting the situation without first examining all the facts. And the simple fact was this: she could not be trusted.

Another simple fact: _He couldn't let her know that._

Sighing, he finally spoke up. "If this guy Walter is really a serial killer...then I guess he's as much my enemy as he is yours." He turned to Henry. "But there's one problem..."

"Yeah?" Henry asked, fumbling with his cuffed hands.

"I'm still confused on this 'Other Walter.' You said the one that's trying to kill you _now _is the same one that tried to kill you in your apartment?"

"That's right," Henry and Eileen said in unison.

"And so the body we found in your apartment belongs to _that _Walter," he added.

"Yes," Henry endorsed.

"And this guy that you're sort of chummy with, he's a different guy altogether."

"From what I understand, yes."

"But then this Other Walter, he's coming after you again."

"Yeah."

"So my question is...is he using the body we found in your room to chase you _now?_ And if so...how? If I were to go back to the morgue in South Ashfield right now, would his body be missing?"

The four of them stood in silence, pondering the question.

"I don't really know," Henry said. "I just know he's back, and he's not going to stop until he's dead, or until we're dead."

"Between James trying to kill us," Heather spoke up, "and Walter trying to kill you, it seems like all four of us are in trouble in some way."

"Which is why we should stick together," Henry said. "Form an alliance, if you will."

Douglas looked at Henry, feeling his doubt sliding out from under him, skewing his perceptions...how he wished for a moment to think this over! But there was no time; this Walter fellow was on his way here right now, if Ms. Galvin was correct, and who knew _what _James was up to? There would only be time for action. He mused that he should find this to be an ideal situation--he had operated under similar circumstances all his life, as a cop, as a police detective and as a private detective--but that argument was met with the fact that his daily life, no matter how hectic, had always been rooted firmly in cold, hard reality, where some constants were always given. In here--in Silent Hill--anything was possible, all bets were off, and reality was a joke. Variability--even in regards to basic physics--was the rule, not the exception.

All of a sudden, a frantic look brushed across Eileen's face. "Oh, _no!_" she glanced around, patting her clothes, as if looking for something in her pockets.

"What?" Henry asked, his heart rate suddenly increased by what felt like tenfold. "What's wrong?"

"I _lost _them!" she shouted...but then a sigh of relief escaped her, and she crossed the room. It was not until she knelt down to pick up the jar lying in the corner that he even registered its existence. Not too far from the jar--sitting right about where Heather had been at the moment of Eileen's arrival--she found a book with a dark-colored cover, sitting splayed open and spine-up on the ground, surrounded by flakes of broken plaster.

Henry glanced around and saw a small black object lying at his left heel. He bent down, realized (once again) that his hands were still cuffed, and motioned to Eileen, who knelt and took it in her arms. She now cradled the three items as one mass, like a newborn baby.

"What are those for?" Henry asked.

"I don't know _what_ they are or what they're for," she said, turning to Heather, "but I know _who _they're for. Here, these are yours." She held the items out to Heather.

"You got them for me?" Heather asked, holding her arms out so Eileen could transfer the items.

"_I_ didn't get them for you," Eileen corrected. "Steven did. He gave them to me, and the Visitor told me to give them to you."

"Visitor?" Heather said. "What's the Visitor?"

"I don't know," Eileen said. "I guess you'd call it a ghost, but that's not really right. It's...a foreign entity. An alien. But not from another planet. I would say from another _dimension,_ but even that's not right. I think the Visitor is even outside of _that._ I think it goes higher up. But enough speculation--when I was in that alleyway, the Visitor came to me, and it showed me things. One of those things had to do with you, Heather. I saw you underneath the hospital, and I saw the things that psycho was doing to you before Mr. Cartland saved you. I didn't want to watch--believe me, I didn't--but the Visitor wouldn't let me look away. It wanted me to see those things. I think they were supposed to impact me, somehow."

Douglas twitched his eyebrow; Henry saw it from the corner of his eye. He didn't think it was a significant gesture, but he was wrong. If he had known that Douglas had just reached the conclusion that just might save all of their lives very shortly, he might have felt more gratitude.

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Heather stood there, items cradled in her arms, with a smile on her face that creeped Henry out. Eileen didn't seem to recognize it; she actually seemed _happy._ Perhaps she mistook the look of madness on the girl's face for one of gratitude?

"Now," Heather said, turning to the other two, "we can do it. This is cool; if I'd known your friend was gonna bring me the items I needed, Henry, then I would have gone about this way different."

"What do you mean?"

"Right here, in my arms," Heather said, "is the way to kill James."

"What?" Henry and Douglas said in unison; even the detective seemed to be affected by that one.

"How? When?" Henry asked, excited. The detective had finally removed his cuffs, and he now massaged one red and irritated wrist.

"As soon as we get to the bottom of this. Literally." She pointed towards the wall Eileen had knocked out upon her entry. Instead of the building beyond--which should have been visible through the missing wall--there was only a long, awful blackness, just hanging there like so much rancid meat (and not smelling too much better from here).

"We have to go in there?" Eileen asked. She obviously wasn't pleased with the idea.

"It's the only way," Heather said. "It leads to where James lives. If we can kill him, I might be able to find a way to stop this Walter guy, too."

"Are you sure?" Eileen asked. "I mean, beyond the shadow of a doubt?"

"Yeah," Henry said. "This is it. This is for keeps. If we go rile up James--or Walter--and whatever you're planning doesn't work, then we're finished."

"Justice League, exit stage left," Douglas said grimly, emphasizing the point.

"Yes, I'm sure," Heather said, clearly feeling that her intelligence had been insulted. "You've got to trust me."

Douglas was more glad at that particular moment that Heather couldn't see than he had been at any previous moment. If she had seen his face then and there, then perhaps things would have turned out much differently in the end...or perhaps what finally came to pass was simply meant to be?

END OF CHAPTER 31


	32. The Machine in the Hole

**Chapter 32**

**The Machine in the Hole**

_"Enemy of the planet, we finally have a common hate_

_A reason to forget about our differences, and stand as a united front."_

"American Errorist (I Hate Hate Haters)" -- NOFX

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"So," Henry asked, peering into the edge of the hole which had been, up until now, concealed by the northern wall, "how exactly _are_ you going to try to kill James?"

Heather sighed. "It's...actually kind of complicated."

Henry turned away from the hole, not just to face Heather but also because there was a faint, unpleasant odor drifting from deep within. "I'm guessing it's ritualistic."

Eileen's brow furrowed. "What's that book?" she asked, breaking away from Henry's embrace and approaching Heather.

"This one?" Heather asked, carefully tapping the palm of one hand on the dark cover--the color of which was now discernable as a very dark green--of the book in her arms. She struggled for a moment, seemed about to lose her payload, and finally managed to keep it steady.

"Yeah," Eileen answered, and plucked the book up from her. "It's got some weird writing on the front." She turned to Henry. "Do you recognize this?"

Henry took one look at it, already shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. "It's nothing I've ever seen."

"Let me see," Douglas said without any clear emotion, and seized the book. He flipped it open, paged through it, pausing once or twice in the process, and furrowed his brow. Then he folded it back up and handed it to Heather. "It looks familiar, somehow. I'm sure I've seen it before...it's some foreign language, I know, but I can't remember for the life of me _which._"

"Do you remember where you saw it before?" Eileen asked, eyeing him.

"No," Douglas said. "Probably in college, in a history class, or something." He hesitated, noticing that both Henry and Eileen were staring at him. Even Heather was facing him, and though she couldn't technically "see" him, Douglas thought the intent of the gesture was clear enough. "It's not like I ever _learned_ it, or anything. I just recognize it, that's all."

The remark was met with disapproving sighs from the other three in the room.

"In any case," Douglas said, "if your friend here--" he half-heartedly motioned to Eileen with his left hand, which now cradled the cigarette he had lit only moments ago. "--is right, then this 'Other Walter' is on his way here as we speak. Am I right?"

Eileen nodded.

"Then we don't have time to waste." Then, turning to Heather: "I don't know what you're going to try--and I won't bother asking you--I just want to let you know that we're all putting our trust in you. So make sure this is something you can handle." He paused, puffed on his cigarette, turned and blew smoke out the door through which he, Heather and Henry had entered. "If it's too much for you, let me know right now. Because I won't be able to help you later, if you can't handle it. Later will be _too_ late."

Heather fought a smile--she obviously didn't want him to see the victory in that gesture, and so he pretended he didn't--and nodded her head. "Don't worry. I know _exactly _what I'm doing."

Nodding, Douglas tossed his cigarette down on the tiled floor and smashed it out with the heel of his shoe, grinding it up efficiently. The thought that this haphazardly-smoked and barely-enjoyed thing very well might be his last cigarette never really occurred to him, except in the back of his mind, where he was always contemplating things the front of his mind refused to acknowledge. Even if it _had_ crossed his conscious mind, it was doubtful that he would have acted any differently from there on out--he had a tendency to just go with the flow, follow the threads as he found them, and chuck everything else to the wind.

"I guess we should get going soon," Eileen said, casting one unpleasant look off into the hole in the wall.

"Who wants to lead the way?" Henry asked, not looking around--he already knew the answer.  
"Me," Heather said, stepping between Henry and Eileen, temporarily splitting them apart. "I'm...yeah, I'm ready." She stood before the gaping hole in the wall, sweating a little bit (much as the detective had been a moment ago, shortly before Eileen's arrival).

"You sure?" Douglas asked one last time. "Last chance." He no longer doubted that she could lead the way, in spite of her blindness; she knew _something,_ and because of what she knew, she didn't _need_ to see to get wherever she needed to be.

Heather hesitated...took a deep breath...swallowed...then answered. "Yeah. Just...when the moment comes, I'm going to need someone to cover me."

"Alright, then," Douglas said, acknowledging her. "Lead the way, hero."

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While the wall itself had been at least twenty feet wide, the passage that had been concealed behind it for so long (and subsequently revealed by whatever force had brought Eileen here) quickly closed inward to a width of no more than five feet, forcing the group to proceed in clusters of two: Douglas and Heather in front, and Henry and Eileen bringing up the rear. The walkway was constructed from rickety plywood, and each step caused the floor to creak downward ever-so-slightly, providing Henry with the sensation that they were crossing some great abyss on a poorly-constructed bridge.

"What _is _this place?" Eileen asked Heather, looking up and around her at the dank scenery. It was almost too dark to see anything--without Douglas' flashlight it would have been, but even that bright light source was little help to Eileen, as Douglas and Heather's forms did much in the way of obscuring it from view. Not that she really _needed_ to see anything; it was just moldy wood.

"It's just a road," Heather said. "It'll take us to where we need to be--to wherever James is hiding, I'm sure."

"How do you know about this?" Eileen asked; she couldn't have seen the sly smile that threatened to cross Douglas' lips even if she had been standing right in front of him. "I mean, who told you?"

"Well," Heather said, "nobody really _told_ me, per se. It's just something--one of many things, actually--that I deduced on my own."

"How did you deduce it, then?"

Heather sighed. "Well, partially from things I heard Laurence talking about when James put me...down there, you know? I learned from them that James'...er, I guess you'd call it a 'base,' anyway, it's underneath the museum. It's where he goes when he's not doing anything. When he's awaiting his next mission."

"Mission?" Eileen asked. "What do you mean, mission?"

"I don't know where he gets his 'orders' from," Heather said, "but he gets them. Somebody--or some_thing_--tells him to do things, sends him on these 'missions.' His latest one was to try to kill us." She motioned to Douglas and herself. "And he almost succeeded."

_That wasn't his mission,_ Douglas thought. _It was to kill Herring. If he had wanted to kill us, he would have done so by now. And I think you know that._

But why? Why would she say that, if she knew?

"There's one thing that's been bothering me," Henry spoke up, breaking the silence he had held since they had entered the hole. He turned to Eileen.

"What's that?" Eileen asked.

"Earlier, you were talking about this person--this _thing_--called a Visitor."

Eileen hesitated; Henry imagined he could hear her thoughts stopping.

"And you said you didn't know what it was, and _that_ I can understand. But...I guess what I want to know is, was _that_ the thing responsible for your, um, outburst earlier?"

Eileen didn't need to ask about which outburst he was speaking. "I think so," she said, after a long silence. "But...let's say it was. How did you come up with that?"

"Well," Henry said, "I knew even when it happened that something was up. Your eyes changed color, and you went nuts. You were much stronger than a normal person."

"What are you saying," Eileen joked. "I'm normally weak?"

"No," Henry said, the humor flying right over his head, "not at all. Just that you had almost superhuman strength. You easily overpowered both Douglas and I. Douglas was only able to stop you by shooting you, and then you all-of-a-sudden went back to normal."

"Yeah," Eileen said, with an unmistakable tone of realization. "That actually makes sense! Because...yeah!"

"What?" Henry asked, pausing in mid-stride. Up ahead, Douglas and Heather came to a stop, as well.

"When Douglas shot me--right before I passed out--that's when the Visitor left. Because he couldn't influence me while I was unconscious. That's what happened in the alley--when the shift happened, the Visitor had power over me, but when everything changed back and Father Steven and I fell unconscious, the effect wore off. So...when Douglas shot me, I guess that drove it away." She raised her voice slightly, so that Douglas would be able to hear her better. "In effect, you saved both mine _and _Henry's life that day, detective."

"How do you figure?" he said, remembering that moment before he'd shot her in the back, that moment when he had wondered if she was going to kill Henry and he would be back at square one on the Walter Sullivan case. After all, Walter--according to Henry, what they now knew to be the "good" one--had given him Henry's name specifically. What a joke.

Hey...

"Wait a minute," Douglas said, turning to face Henry.

"What's up?" Heather said, sounding urgent.

"How did Walter know your name before?" Douglas said.

"What do you mean?" Henry asked.

"Before I came to your apartment. Walter named you personally, first and last. He said you might have been involved with the murders."

"What?" Henry asked, eyes wide. He had clearly not know this.

"He even went as far as to suggest that _you_ were the real murderer, and that he was being framed."

"That..." but Henry's anger trailed off before he could say anything else. Of _course_ Walter would have said something like that; his goal had been to make contact with Henry at all costs.

"That what?" Douglas prodded.

"Douglas, we need--" Heather started to say, tugging on the detective's sleeve, but she was cut off in mid-sentence.

"It was a lie," Henry said. "I'm almost sure of it. He told you that so you'd bring me to the jail--he might have told you I was a 9/11 terrorist, if he'd thought it would make you hunt me down faster. He wanted to bring me to him, and then he wanted to get_ you _to bring us to Silent Hill, and _that_ was when he planned the escape, I'll bet. The one in the field just a couple of miles outside of Pleasant River."

"So the bastard _did_ have it all planned out ahead of time," Douglas said, rubbing his chin with one thumb. "I'll be damned."

"I wouldn't quite put it that way," Henry said. "I mean, yes, I'm sure he had _some _plan...but I doubt it was as elaborate as you're giving him credit for. Not that he _couldn't_ come up with an elaborate plan...just that the one he actually pulled off would have required a great deal of foreknowledge. An _impossible_ amount of foreknowledge."

"How so?"

"Like, he would have had to know that you would actually take us to Silent Hill. No offense, detective, but not just any cop would have humored us like that. But you and Herring both had backgrounds relating to our situation, and so you were more likely to believe and help us against your 'code'...he _had_ to have known that. Otherwise, he wouldn't have even considered it. That kind of thing isn't something you can count on happening."

"But _how _could he have known" Douglas wondered, dumbfounded.

"I don't know," Henry said. "But it could have something to do with the Other Walter."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, on the way into Pleasant River, Walter was telling me about how he'd been receiving visions from the Other Walter ever since about...um, two or three days ago." Henry hadn't realized until this moment that he had no idea what time it was; sure, it was dark outside, but that didn't mean a thing in Silent Hill, except that things were bound to get ugly sooner or later. It might not even be the same day, anymore...how long had they been here?

"Visions?"

"Yeah," Henry continued. "The Other Walter was the one that came to him on short notice and told him to run, he said. So I don't think he had that escape in mind until almost right before it happened."

Douglas' eyes narrowed. "You mean to tell me...basically, all that weird crap Walter pulled on us...it wasn't _your_ Walter at all? It was this 'Other Walter?'"

Henry shrugged. "I can't say for certain, but I'm sure that's at least in the ball-park."

"I'll be damned," Douglas repeated.

"Guys," Heather said, and finally caught everyone's attention. "Not to be rude, but...can we have this discussion later? There's not really a whole lot of time left."

"What?" Douglas asked. "Can you sense James, or something?"  
"No," Heather said indignantly, as though he should have known better but offering no better reason as to her urgency.

"Yeah," Eileen said, taking some of the focus from Heather, "we should keep moving."

"Hey, wait," Heather said. "Up ahead."

"I see something," Eileen said...and hesitated to ask if that was what Heather was talking about. For then she'd be pressed to explain how the kid could have seen it. "Douglas, can you shine your light, please?"

Douglas obliged. "I think I see a door," he said, and he was right: about forty feet ahead, the narrow path became even narrower--less than five feet wide at its narrowest point--and then came to a stop right in front of a perfectly normal metal door with a single glass pane near the top.

"That's the way," Heather said, bleeding excitement. "We're getting so close, I can feel it!"

"I can feel something, too," Eileen said. "It's...it's not good."

"Come to think of it," Henry said, "I'm getting a weird feeling, too. It's like...I don't know, a tingle in the base of my spine. Not like fear, but...well, I don't know." He reached over to scratch his back, as though it itched.

"Just don't worry about it," Heather said reassuringly. "As long as we have these--" she raised the objects cradled in her arms. "--we'll be fine. James won't be able to lift a finger to us."

Douglas eyed her uncomfortably, wanting badly to just snap and wring the truth out of her right now. Of course, that would be a terrible idea, with a much better opportunity approaching so quickly. At least, he hoped--if things happened _too _quickly, he might not see the chance coming until it was too late.

And _that _would be a bad thing.

He was reminded of an old George Carlin-ism he'd readin a book somewhere: _There's a moment coming...wait for it...here it comes...aw, damn it, it's gone!_ He'd thought it was particularly funny at the time of the reading, but now that it seemed to describe his situation so accurately, much of the humor was lost.

"Here," Heather said. They had finally come to the door, and now stood single-file: Heather at the front, Douglas behind her, then Eileen, and then Henry. "This is it!"

There was one more thing Douglas was worried about, as well--something Heather had said only moments ago but was already troubling him: _I know exactly what I'm doing._

Douglas had kept his mouth shut when she'd spoken those words, but he'd almost slipped up and said what had been on his mind: _That's what I'm afraid of._

In front of him, Heather turned the knob with one hand and pushed against the bulk of the door, just below the glass panel, with the other. At first it wouldn't budge; Douglas tried to reach around her to help just a little bit, but before he could move more than a couple of inches, the thing abruptly swung open and slammed against the inside wall with a resounding, dualistic _CLANG!_

And that was where they found it.

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Douglas didn't see it right away, because of the angle of his flashlight. What _did _become clear right away was that this room was the source of the foul smell he and the others had detected since entering the Hole (it was very powerful in here), and the reason for that came to light--quite literally--only seconds later.

"Oh," Eileen said, raising her hands to cover her mouth and nose--both as a gesture of shock and as a means to escape the dreadful odor. "Oh, my God."

"What...?!" Henry said, backing up so that he stood just inside the open doorway. "What...what _happened _here?"

Heather sighed deeply; Henry figured the reason for her calm was due to the fact that she could not see her surroundings. But the next words out of her mouth spoke against that: "It's the Hurting Ground."

"The what?" Douglas half-whispered. It was all he could do to speak at all.

"Aptly-named," Henry said, stepping forward once more and sliding his arm around Eileen. She leaned closer to him; all of a sudden, they were both desperately in need of each other's warmth.

"'Where all good men are trampled down,'" Heather said in an eerie, monotonous voice that managed to sound mocking at the same time. "Or so the saying goes. But these aren't good men."

"What are you talking about?" Douglas demanded, turning to face her. It was an exercise in willpower not to seize her by the shoulders and command her to stop acting all cryptic and start giving answers--this "Riddle me this, Batman" bullshit was starting to get old.

"It's a place that regular people can't normally reach," Heather said, kneeling down and carefully setting the items on the floor in front of her. "I suppose it's part of James' lair now, but it hasn't always been that way. It used to be a tool."

"Are you talking about that...machine?" Eileen asked, unsure as to whether she had chosen an accurate word or not. "That thing?"

Before them, the room--or perhaps "room" was too simple a term, for it was certainly grand enough to warrant the title of "stadium"--spanned out in an absolutely _immense_ cemi-circle, sort of like a colosseum...except the floor was made entirely of corroded mesh, and there were no seats anywhere. There _were, _however,many stinking wads of what appeared to be some kind of otherworldly mulch, littered all across the wide span of the stadium floor in mounds of differing size, some small, some large, and some so grandiose they could not be seen past.

At the other end of the room was the "machine" of which Eileen had spoken--a grand device spanning the entirety of the far wall, several hundred feet long, maybe even thousands, as it was difficult to judge distance from here, and maybe half that high. It came to two fine points on either end of the room, one several hundred feet to the right and one equally as far to the left, both at ground-level and both marked by some kind of furnace-type thing that reminded Eileen of the coal furnace in the engine car of a train.

The thing's entire length was cutaway, showing its inner workings, prompting Eileen's usage of the word "machine"--it certainly didn't resemble any machine Eileen (or Henry, or Douglas, for that matter) had ever seen, but it was almost certainly a machine of some kind. A complicated weave of tubes, tunnels, and pathways, varying in width from as many as six feet wide in some places to as little as two or three inches in others. Pistons pumped up and down, left and right, in and out, all throughout this stunning design, pushing asymmetrical lumps of various unidentifiable substances along the system's unspeakable way, in some places merely transporting said lumps but in other cases seeming to compress them into smaller, more compact shapes. The unmistakable presence of blood at nearly every "intersection" along this weave of tunnel-like structures seemed to hint at something far worse than what they were seeing.

As amazing as the grandiose machine was, however, it was not the cause of Douglas', Eileen's, and Henry's plight. No, that responsibility was attributed to the chains which hung from the ceiling, from which dangled cages about six feet long and two or three wide, giant upright metal rectangles. Inside those cages were the worst of it: Limbless, headless human torsos, bound up and presented like some kind of hellish trophy. Black-colored congealed blood was caked around each and every wound, marking the point at which the limbs had been removed (not that such markings were necessary).

Hundreds of them; maybe even _thousands._ Countless desecrated human corpses, all missing their heads and limbs.

Eileen felt a gag reflex building up in her throat; she closed her eyes and tried to think of something calm, something relaxing--something that wasn't _food_--to stifle the agitated muscles in her digestive system. It worked...for the moment.

"What the hell _is_ this?" Douglas asked Heather, wanting badly to take his eyes off of the hideous scenery but unable to--he now knew the true meaning of the phrase, "too horrified to look away." It was as if his eyes refused to believe him and were insisting on further study, perhaps to find some minor inconsistency that would prove his initial judgement to be in error.

"I told you," Heather said. "It's the Hurting Ground. It's where people get what's coming to them. Really bad people. People who are too bad for society to comprehend."

"What?" Douglas said, mindblown. He tried to think of something besides _What?, what the hell?, _or _what the hell are you talking about?, _but it was as if all other words in his vocabulary were on coffee-break.

Heather sighed once again, this time a bit more agitated. "This is where people go when Silent Hill is done with them. Not all of them, mind you, just the _really_ bad ones. The ones that society hasn't learned how to deal with. The ones who do horrible things beyond imagining."

"Nobody deserves this," Douglas said. "Nobody."

Then, in a conversational tone that was just too calm--_fuck_ that she couldn't see, this was just _wrong--_Heather spoke words that pierced Douglas' heart: "What about a man who would cut a woman's limbs off, and then rape her while she's bleeding to death?"

Douglas couldn't react; if the scenery wasn't too much for him, then the strange, foreign emotions wafting around his heart and mind like flies on a corpse were. This was all just too much. He felt...like...slipping...

The last words he heard were _Quick, catch him!_

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"Douglas!"

He stirred, but did not open his eyes. Not yet.

"Douglas, please!" Heather's voice.

He was afraid, afraid to open his eyes. Afraid of what he might see. Afraid that place might still be there when he opened his eyes.

It was.

"Damn it," he said, trembling. "Help me up."

Henry obliged. "You fainted," he said, sliding his arm under the detective's right shoulder and over the left.

"I know," Douglas responded, and spat. "I don't feel so hot."

"Yeah," Eileen said, holding herself with both arms. "I know what you mean. This place...it's starting to get to me."

Henry thought he now knew what that feeling had been, the spine-tingling sensation he'd gotten in the outer hallway--it had been the feeling of this place, the feelings lying in wait therein. It was as if, even though the souls of the people who had once been here were long gone, the sheer intensity of their evil had remained. Heather hadn't been kidding when she'd said this place was for the worst of the worst, and Henry no longer wondered how she had known about that particular case of the rape--for he, too, could feel similar memories trying to get inside his head and corrupt him. He wouldn't give in to those thoughts--_couldn't,_ as such heinous, pointless violence was not in his nature--but they floated around him all the same, just outside the innermost reaches of his heart and mind, knocking on that door, the one the devil must have put there secretly during the process of creation, when God wasn't looking.

A man who had skinned his daughter alive (and by hand)--just because he felt like it--with a broken shard of industrial-strength glass, the kind you saw in construction sites. Henry heard her screams, his laughter.

The man, Charlie, who had kidnapped his prom date, a girl named Allie; had taken her to a place far out in the woods to the east of his hometown, taken a chainsaw out of his trunk, removed her limbs, raped her as she lay dying, and then buried her body in a dry streambed nearby. Henry heard Charlie's obscene laughter, her pleas for mercy, her cries of misery, and felt his heart turn a shade darker.

"Stop," he said, raising his hands to his ears, trying to block out the heinous images that plagued his mind. "Just stop, please."

"What's wrong?" Eileen said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Then, as if she'd felt it, too, she quickly pulled away from him.

"Make it stop," he said, shaking his head violently. If this continued much longer, he felt like his heart might simply burst from endless, regretful sorrow--all of the lives that had been ended in ways that were so unfair, so ridiculous, so insane, that they shouldn't have ever even been _thought_ of.

"I think he's losing it," Douglas said, not joking but afraid for Henry. Turning to Heather: "Do what you're going to do, and let's get the hell out of here. You said this place wasn't meant for normal people, and you were right--we shouldn't be here. We can't tolerate this atmosphere."

"I'm on it," Heather said, and began to arrange the items before her. "Do you still have _Crimson Ceremony_?"

Douglas produced it from within his coat and handed it to her, glad to be rid of it. "How long will this take?"  
"Not long," Heather said--and, Douglas noticed with disbelief, with a _smile_ on her face. It was just the faintest spectral remains of one...but it was there. Something deep inside Douglas reacted to that, and spoke to him now: _Don't let her do it. Whatever she's going to do is not good. Stop her, now!_

Douglas actually began to reach forward, intending to shake her shoulder, get her attention...but then he forced himself to pull back. Whatever strange magic--or perhaps it had just been simple, powerful intuition?--had caused him to act out like that seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

_Just hurry up,_ he thought at her, and produced his lighter and another cigarette from the pack of smokes in his chest pocket. After this one, he discovered, he was down to two. _Just hope we can wrap this up before I need more._

Ahead of him, Heather was shaking her head. "No, this won't do. I need to be closer to the source." And then she began picking up the items, stacking the two books on top of each other and placing the jar in the basin of the goblet.

"What?" Douglas asked. "What are you doing?"

"Don't worry," Heather said. "Just a minor detail. I should be a little bit closer to the machine. The machine is the Source." She promptly started off towards it.

Douglas, Henry and Eileen watched, all of them not-so-secretly wishing that she would _hurry the hell up._

She stopped at a point about fifty feet from the machine which comprised much of the far wall--about two or three hundred feet from where the three of them stood in front of the door. Facing the machine, Heather once again knelt down and began to arrange the objects before her in a pattern that was not visible from here.

"What's she doing?" Eileen asked the detective. "Do you know?"

Douglas lit his cigarette and put away the lighter. "No clue," he said. "Whatever it is, I hope she's gonna do it quick." He took the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaled--even the poisoned aroma of the cigarette seemed less harmful than the tainted air of this place--and almost dropped it trying to put it back in; he realized that his hand was trembling weakly, and took a moment to hope that James (or Walter, for that matter) would not intervene in tonight's affairs any further.

Neither Henry nor Eileen seemed to express any discontent with that sentiment; they stood and continued to physically support each other, as if one might simply collapse if not for the other.

But just a short moment later--surely no more than a minute--Henry raised his free hand and pointed one finger off in Heather's direction, canted slightly upward. "Guys," he said.

Douglas snapped his head towards Heather without another word. She was still sitting over there, apparently concocting some kind of magical spell. Absurd, he knew...but at the same time, it had a strange sort of promise to it. "What? Heather?"

"No," Henry said, and jerked his hand upward. "Up there. I think we've got company."

And that was when both Douglas and Eileen laid eyes on the newcomer; he stood on a metal catwalk which apparently spanned most of the room, no less than a hundred feet up in the air. How Henry had seen him up there without a flashlight was beyond Douglas, but he wasn't too stunned to be grateful, for the madman was there. If not for Henry, they wouldn't have seen him at all, standing up there and looking straight down at Heather with that hateful expression on his face, dressed in full green-coat regalia, complete with bolt-action laser-sighting sniper rifle.

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"_Heather!_" Douglas cried out, accidentally spitting out his cigarette (and not really giving a damn, not anymore). "_Move! Get out of the way!_"

He saw her head come up, but it was impossible to tell if she knew James was here or not.

"Damn it," he said, and drew his gun. "_James!_"

_That_ got her attention. She looked up from what she was doing, distracted by the mention of her nemesis. It was only upon the use of his name that a look of surprised--and was that terrified, as well?--rage fell across her face.

James was shouldering the rifle--had begun doing so as soon as he'd heard Douglas say his name, thus blowing his cover--and in less than three seconds, he would be shooting. Douglas took that time to fire four shots straight up at James. All four missed.

"What?" he cried out. "That can't be!" But his memory of the encounter with Eileen back at South Ashfield Heights suggested otherwise. The words _The Visitor_ popped into his head, and he thought that he would have to ask Eileen to explain that next time the opportunity arose.

_If _the opportunity arose. If they all survived this encounter. If James got to Heather before Douglas did...then all was lost. She was the only one who knew how to kill him, or so she said.

"Henry, wait!" Eileen cried, reaching out, but it was too late; Henry had already broken into a run, fully intent on reaching Heather.

"You..._wait!_" Douglas echoed, alternating glances between Henry, Heather and James. He didn't know what to do; shooting wasn't working, and chances were that yelling would probably be just as effective. Before he knew it, he was running towards Heather, too.

No way; it wasn't going to happen. There was no way they would reach her in time.

Up above, James' rifle-bolt slid into place. The absurdly loud click was audible even at this distance.

"_No!_" Douglas shouted, and began blindly firing up above, aiming only in James' general direction. Even if he hit the guy, he knew it wouldn't do any good...but what it came down to was that he was stumped, out of options. They were going to lose.

The rifle report came.

The shot descended.

And missed.

Heather sat where she was, staring up with stupid, angry wonder, probably thinking she'd been shot but unable to react. Douglas could almost see the run of her thoughts on her face--terror at the thought of what James would do to her, rage at the thought that he had done her so much wrong and still managed to come out on top in the end--and the surprise that swam just above it all. He knew that if he were her, right now he would be thinking, _I should be dead now._

But she wasn't. James had _missed._

From above: "What the _hell?_"

"You _missed!"_ Douglas teased. Up ahead, Henry had reached Heather and was now kneeling before her.

"Come on," Henry said. "We've got to get out of here."

"No!" Heather said, pushing him away. "Just trust me. I've got to do this. Once I do, James will disappear! James, and this world he made! Everything!"

Henry looked at her, unsettled.

"Henry?" she asked. "You do believe me, right?"

Henry nodded. "Of course. But you're going to die if you stay here."

"Keep him busy."

"What?"

"Keep him busy," she repeated, returning to the items. She had taken the lid off of the jar--which was not empty after all, as it had seemed earlier, as a trace amount of some kind of grayish-white liquid was present at the very bottom. If it had been milk, it wouldn't even be enough for a bowl of cereal.

"There's no time--"

"Just keep him off my back, okay?" Heather snapped, and opened the _Crimson Ceremony _to a page about halfway through. "Please...you've got to trust me. If you can just buy me a couple of minutes--"

_BLAM!_

Heather screamed, startled, when a rifle shell rebounded off of the ground less than a foot to her left.

"Come on," Henry said.

"No," Heather insisted. "I'll die here, if that's what it takes. It's not like I have a life to go back to, anyway."

Henry opened his mouth to speak.

"Just go, okay?" she said. "Please, it'll only take a minute.

Henry shot her a disapproving glance...then looked up and saw that James had lowered his rifle for a moment. Perhaps he was reloading it?

"Henry!" Douglas shouted, reaching him at last. "Heather, come on!"

"No," Henry said.

"What?"

"Listen," Henry said. "We've got to keep James from--"

Before he could finish the sentence, James was standing in-between them. Henry cried out in terrified surprise, tripping over backwards and falling on his ass, and Douglas just started shooting. The detective clipped the hulk of a man three times in the face, putting pock-marks below his left eye, above his right, and almost right in the center of his forehead.

"I told you that wouldn't work," James said, managing to sound perfectly sincere, and smacked the butt of the rifle into the side of Douglas' head, quick as a flash. The detective went down, blood trailing from one ear.

"_Douglas!_" Henry shouted, rising to his feet, and James turned and plowed his fist into Henry's chest, sending him toppling onto his ass once again. This time, though, he couldn't breathe.

"She told me it's time for the girl to die," James said, towering over Henry, shouldering his rifle once again and aiming it towards Heather. He pulled back the bolt with a _ka-chink._

Henry tried to say _no,_ but all that came out was a choked half-whisper, half-cough.

Behind him, no more than twenty feet, Heather was chanting something in a low tone of voice, completely oblivious to the struggle for her life.

A loud sound--_crack! crack! crack!_, the familiar sound of pistol fire--interrupted James' motion, and the gun jerked awkwardly to the right, away from Henry.

Turning his head to the left, trying desperately to hurry to his feet, Henry saw that Doulgas had shot at the gun in James' hand. Henry was close enough to James to see the two bullet-marks in the side of the stock. The third one must have gone wild.

"Get _back_ here," James said, and seized Henry by the back of the neck--not the shirt, but the _neck._ He lifted Henry into the air with his free hand, wrapping his fingers all the way around his throat and squeezing hard. Not enough to kill him (not right away, at least), but enough to hurt like hell and leave a bruise that would stay for weeks, if he survived this encounter.

The next thing of which Henry was aware was a catlike scream of fury, followed by several blunt noises.

"Let _go _of him!"

_Oh, no,_ Henry thought. _Eileen, no!_

James grunted with effort and cast Henry aside like a used towel. Henry skidded along the grated floor, scraping his arms and legs deeply enough to draw blood in several places--the edges of the grate were quite sharp, producing a cheese-grater effect on his clothes and skin--and finally came to a stop. Gasping for every breath, he managed to pull himself to his knees in time to see James twirling in a circle, grabbing at Eileen's arms, which were draped around his shoulders (hers looked like popsicle sticks in comparison with his--James' were simply _huge_). She was screaming bloody murder, and he was growling at her like an animal. In a more normal context, Henry might have found the sight comical, but in this case it only filled him with horror, as he feared for her life.

"_Eileen_!"

In one quick, fluid motion, James plucked Eileen's hands from his shoulders, pulled on them (hard enough to dislocate her shoulders, Henry thought, were she in the right position), and flung her _up over_ his head. She came down on her back, right in front of him, with a _THUD!_ that in no way sounded healthy.

"There," he said, huffing, and stepped over her. One step closer to Heather. Two. Three. He was now no more than ten feet away from her.

"_Douglas!_" Henry shouted, trying to reach the detective...but he was out cold. Getting clocked with the butt of the rifle had put him right to the edge, and taking that shot must have pushed him over. Henry's voice fell on deaf ears, filling him with a sense of utter defeat; they had failed.

It was over.

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"Now it's time to die."

James stood over Heather as she read from the book, _Crimson Ceremony,_ in a tone too soft to hear. She didn't even seem to notice him.

"I don't care if you don't care," he said, reaching down and touching her shoulder. "I'm going to put you down right here. I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be."

She continued to chant.

"Listen, you little--"

"_I wouldn't do that, if I were you!_"

James turned quite suddenly, eyeing the fallen bodies of the detective and the other girl, the one who was close to the Receiver. None of them had spoken; the woman and the detective were out cold, and the Receiver was sitting on his knees, half-dazed, in the corner over there. So who...?

The voice came again, taunting. "_Heh, heh!_" Very distant, but projected quite effectively. It sounded much louder than any of the others had, when they'd been shouting amongst themselves.

"Who's there?" James asked.

Behind him, Heather continued to chant.

There was no response from the voice.

"Well," James said, "if you don't mind, I have a job to do. We can have this little chat lat--"

_WHAM!_

The rifle clattered to the floor.

James flipped around, intending to see the newcomer.

Nothing.

"Lay off her," the voice said, this time much closer.

"Go to hell," James said...though his voice had grown weak. "_She_ has given me my orders, and I'll carry them out. You won't hold me back!" He reached down for the rifle, and was quite suddenly struck in the back of the head. He pivoted, sure that his attacker would be standing right behind him...

...but no one was there.

"I'm the gingerbread man," the voice said. "Can't catch me!"

"_What do you want?_" James asked, growing indignant. _She_ wouldn't wait much longer; he had plenty of time to kill the girl, but _She_ might grow impatient if he didn't hurry. And to make Her wait was unwise. He started to turn towards her, and was intrigued by what he heard next.

"What, you don't know?" the voice said, and James thought he recognized it now.

"Punk," he said, not turning to face the direction from which the voice had come. No, not this time. "I should've known you'd be trouble."

"Yes," the voice of the punk agreed, "you should've. I figured you'd recognize me right away--after all, I _am _a danger to your little dreamworld, your main concern." And just like that, _he _walked out of the shadows; the punk he'd seen before, walking with the Receiver in the woods. Except it _wasn't_ the punk...he was different.

"I should've killed you when I had the chance," James, smiling, told Walter as he came closer...closer...closer...and stopped, about ten feet away.

"You're right," Walter said, his short black hair still standing straight up in the front by some means, his black leather jacket clinging tightly to his upper body, cinched at the waist, the bell-like bottoms of his black jeans--something that surely belonged in the seventies, what with all the holes in and around the knees. "You should've."

James backed up--not because he was afraid, but because he wanted to get closer to Heather. Walter matched his step with one of his own. "What's your business here?"

"You know," Walter said, and it was then that James noticed the two imaginary revolvers holstered at the madman's waist--the kind of gun, like James' own, that only existed in dreams.

"Do I?" James said.

"Take one more step backward and we're gonna have at it," Walter said, grinning.

James stopped, and the grin disappeared from his face. "You're powerless. I don't fear you."

"It's not my power you should fear," Walter said. "It's what I know."

"What do you--" he hesitated, his eyes widening with fear and terrible understanding.

"That's right," Walter said, reading him like a book. "I know all about you, Mr. Sunderland."

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_I know all about you, Mr. Sunderland._

Douglas awoke to the sound of a familiar voice, one he hadn't heard in awhile...wait...

"Walter," he whispered, unable to produce any greater volume. His head was _throbbing..._God!

"There's nothing to know," James' voice insisted. "I have nothing to hide."

"Oh," Walter's voice continued, "I'm not talking about your dead wife. I know you don't have any remorse for her death--"

"_Shut up--_"

"--I'm talking about--"

"_Shut _up!"

"--Her," Walter said, and halted.

Douglas could hear James' heavy breathing. He managed to climb to a sitting position, and was struck very suddenly with the most terrible headache of his life; he had to hang his head very low in order for it to abate to a manageable level. Even so, he could now see Walter and James holding their interesting conversation just out of the corner of his eye.

"What can you know?" James bellowed. "You're not like me. You don't have my kind of power."

"You're right," Walter said. "Sort of."

"What do you mean?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Walter said, and reached for one of his guns. When James showed signs of retaliation, Walter laughed. "Relax, lil' trailhand! I'm just playin' with yer!"

"Don't mess around," James said. He was getting impatient; soon, he would have to make a break for the girl, snap her neck in one quick motion. Walter...the bastard was stalling for time. Walter may not be able to _hurt _him, but he certainly was quick enough to keep him from attacking the girl, should he feel so inclined. And the girl's death was necessary.

"Why don't you tell these fine people--" Walter motioned to Henry, Eileen, and Douglas, respectively. "--why you don't want Heather to perform the ritual?"

"Shut up," James said. "I've already been over this. If you have something to say, then say it."

"I don't really have anything to say," Walter said. "It's _you _who has something to say. Come on, spit it out! We all want to hear it!"

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Henry saw the grin cross Walter's face as he spoke. "I mean, we already know, don't we?" He turned and looked Henry dead in the eye, startling the hell out of him, then turned back to James. "We just want to hear you say it."

"She's lying," James said. He looked to the detective. "She's lying to all of you. She's not trying to kill me, she's trying to bring him back!"

Henry saw Douglas' eyes widen, and his mouth gape. He wondered if the detective had interpreted that remark the same way that he had.

"But we know _that,_" Walter said. "At least, our buddy Detective Dan does!" He turned and winked at Douglas. "We want to hear the good part!"

"There _is_ no good part," James said, hanging his head. "There's nothing good about any of this."

"Oh, but there _is!_" Walter insisted, twitching joyfully, like a kid who's just been picked first to play softball. A sarcastic grin now covered his face. "Tell us about this dreamworld of yours, James ol' buddy! Tell us about what's gonna happen once lil' Heather over there pulls of her little magic trick!" He took a step closer to James, put his hands on his hips in a mocking gesture, cocking his head from side-to-side. Henry recognized it right away as Walter's imitation of what he'd called a "preppy school girl." It made him feel absurdly triumphant--not only had Walter survived, but he was somehow managing to save their skin with effortless ease.

Of course, as long as he was within reach of James, he, too, was in grave physical danger.

"Nothing will happen," James said, "because I'm going to kill her. And then, if She lets me, I'll kill you, too."

"Pussywhipped, eh?" Walter said, and ducked the punch James threw at him. The brute reached down for his rifle, and when he came to face Walter with it, the young man had drawn both of his revolvers. Now, James and Walter stood with their weapons drawn on one another, the ultimate stalemate. Except Walter was the only one who need fear being shot.

"Touche," Walter said, tipping one of his guns away from his brow in a salutatory gesture. "You's a quick one, yes you is!"

"Just die," James said, and flipped the bolt.

Walter pulled back the hammers on his guns.

James' finger caressed the edge of the trigger; he was sweating all over.

Conversely, Walter seemed--pardon the cliche--cool as a cucumber.

"What do you want?" James repeated. "You can't just want to come here and play mind games."

"Oh," Walter said in a scolding tone, "but the mind games are only part of the fun! Y'see, I happen to not be real fond of people like you." He lifted one hand and, still holding the revolver, scratched behind his ear. Then he readjusted his aim. "See, Jimmy ol' buddy, there are three kinds of people in this world (and in most worlds)--people who don't believe in anything at all; people who believe in something but never acknowledge it, even when it's right in front of them; and people who believe in something but look for _every little _reason to acknowledge it." He squinted his eyes for emphasis as he said this last. "You fall into that second category. You've found a treasure of the Creators, and you don't see it for what it is. You've found something that does amazing, wondrous, incredible things...and you just abuse it. You used it for your own short-sighted gain, to fill a hole that _you _punched in your own life. And you've kept it from anyone else who dares get close to it, even if only by accident."

"Shut up," James said, though the strength seemed to be completely gone from his voice.

"You got up one morning, went to see your wife, killed her, stuck her body in the trunk of your car, went back home, did a load of laundry...the list goes on. In any case, you wound up right back here, the place where it all started. And youknew--you _knew_--that she was dead, and you could never have her back. Part of you did, anyway. You tried to convince yourself there was a way to get her back, because you didn't want to accept responsibility for what you did...and that's how the town got you."

"Shut _up!_" James took a step towards Walter.

"But as time went on, and you had time to examine the illusions that you created to hide from the truth...you realized, there _might just be_ another way. There might be a little crowbar you can use to get under the edge of the truth...and pry it loose...and replace it with your own crazy imaginings."

James did not answer; he merely scrunched his face up, trying to contain his apparent surge of fury. He acted as if some part of him actually _wanted_ to hear the abuse Walter was offering.

"But what you _didn't_ expect," Walter said, "was that it _wasn't_ entirely that way. You _couldn't_ have it all back. You found that out before it was too late...but you decided that you'd be happier with a fake illusion than with a real problem. So you stuck to your guns!" Walter clapped his guns together, startling everyone in the room...except Heather, who continued to chant in monotone. "You got what you wished for...or a version of it, anyhow. You got your She, your little special thing."

"Don't talk about Her like that," James said, and took another step closer.

But Walter would not back down. "She's been giving you orders ever since. And the sad part is, she's no more Mary than you are."

"_Shut up!_" That was it for James; he leaped forward, intending to brain Walter in the forehead as he had done to Douglas; Walter sidestepped to the left, keeping his aim on James, and shot him once in the back. It didn't seem to hurt him at all.

James flipped around to Walter, intending to rush him again, but that was when he caught sight of Heather from the corner of his eye. "Oh...no, no!"

"That's right," Walter said, and--amazingly--holstered his revolvers, stepping close to James. He put a hand on the tyrant's shoulder, as if they were old friends. "Gotcha."

James knocked Walter's hand away and bolted towards Heather. He was only about fifteen feet away; he might be able to make it in time.

Meanwhile, a tangerine-colored light swam around Heather, blowing her hair and clothes every which way, and was she _levitating?_ It was hard to tell, but it certainly looked like it from Walter's standpoint.

"No," James said, aiming at Heather with his rifle. "No, no, _no!_ Mary, I can't...you have to help me!"

"Mary's dead, James," Walter said, shaking his head. "Has been for years now."

"Dead but not gone," James muttered, gasping for breath, and fired the rifle straight into the back of Heather's head. He howled triumphantly...and then felt his heart sink as the shell bounced off of some invisible surface just an inch or so away from the target. "What...what?"

"Too little, too late," Walter said. "As my good buddy Peter Garrett used to say, 'Your dreamworld is just about to faal!'" And with that, he clapped with hilarious triumph.

"_No!_" James said, tears forming in the corner of his eyes, and fired at her three more times. Each shell bounced off of the shield of light being projected in front of her. "No...Mary, I'm...I _can't!_"

"Give it up," Walter said coldly, all-of-a-sudden abandoning his jolly self; now he was all business. "At least then, you can have something sane to think about while you're rotting in hell. Blasphemer."

When the rifle clicked empty, James threw it at her, and when it bounced away just like the shells had, he charged Heather himself, intending to ram her and quite probably break every bone in her body. She would be crushed under his weight...

...except that he, like the shells (and the rifle itself), only bounced off of the transparent shield and soared through the air, landing six feet off to the right of Heather. He rose to his feet, seeing that Heather had finally completed the incantation, and realized that he had lost. This realization was evident in the long, sorrow-filled cry of defeat that escaped his lungs: "_Mary!"_

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_Amazing,_ Henry thought. Walter had shown up and, without firing more than a single shot, completely knocked James off of his feet. It was nothing short of a miracle, especially considering the point at which Walter had arrived--a second sooner, and all would have been for naught. But in spite of all this--which appeared to be nothing but positive--Henry was still set off-kilter by exactly _how _Walter had come across this knowledge...from where was he getting his dirt on James? Had they known each other? He supposed it was possible...but then...

Heather was laughing, holding her arms up in the air like a follower praising the Lord in church. She wasn't muttering any longer, just making elated noises and waving her hands around.

Meanwhile, James was climbing to his knees, tears streaming from his face, trying desparately to stop Heather but surely knowing that it was too late. Even so, he was a fighter--he would go down in flames, if that was how Heather would have it. In that moment of bitter, undeniable defeat, Henry was disturbed to feel a strange, almost _human_ emotional bond with the thing that was no longer precisely human...he almost felt _sorry_ for him.

All it took to remind him that such a feeling was not necessary was the memory of the bullet piercing Officer Herring's heart, killing him almost instantly. That had been unnecessary, no matter how you looked at it. It had been entirely unprovoked.

Henry's brow furrowed.

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Eileen felt numb all over; she could still move, but the parts of her body she _could _feel hurt like hell when she did so. She wondered if she'd slipped a disc, or something; she could only hope that there had been no permanent damage.

Looking to her left, she could see Heather standing up in a pool of bright light--not quite as bright as the light that had taken her from the killing ground beneath the hospital to this one beneath the museum, but still bright--and raising her hands in sheer, unadulterated joy.

Off to the right, trying again and again (but with no obvious success) to breach some kind of invisible force-field that now surrounded Heather, was James. He was screaming _Mary_ over and over again, and apologizing profusely. Eileen felt bad for feeling the way she did when she looked at him--she felt the same way she might, had she squashed a disgusting and troublesome cockroach that kept getting into her cake batter for some reason--but the predominant feeling in her heart was relief, for that was certainly one major threat done away with. She wondered...would James die when the spell was complete? Or would he simply lose his powers? Or would something else happen entirely?

She took time to glance at this mysterious new Walter--not the one in the apartments that had tried to kill her, but the "nice" one of whom Henry had spoken earlier--and was mesmerized by how well-spoken and hideously coordinated he had been...and how surprisingly snazzy he looked in all of that ratty clothing.

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They were all relieved to see James going down as he was, but the most elated person in the room was inarguably Heather; the most important part being that _nobody knew why._ They all _thought_ they knew...

Heather had almost begun to cry when she'd realized that she'd completed the incantation--that everything was going to be fine--but the cherry on top of the sundae came now: the final act, the last move.

Before her, a pillar of light shone down from high above, crashing into the ground, threatening to blind all who dared stare directly into it. Thankfully, Heather was not vulnerable to this threat.

_Heather..._

It was a familiar voice...oh _so_ familiar...one she hadn't heard in years.

"Yes," she said, and now she _was _starting to cry. "Yes, I'm here!"

_Heather...that's good. I knew you'd wait for me._

"Yes!" she said, clapping her hands together. "Yes, I said I would, and now I'm here!"

_And now we can be together!_

"Yes!"

A body appeared before her, lifeless, inanimate. It came to rest on the floor, at the base of the pillar of light, in a sitting position. She didn't need to see the brown leather jacket, vest, and jeans that the man had been buried in at her request to know whose body it was.

"I'm ready," she said, and with that, everything went white.

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Henry couldn't see a thing, but he could still hear Heather speak that last sentence with eerie certainty: _I'm ready._ When he heard her say it, his first instinct was to say, _No, wait,_ just because it sounded so _wrong._ But then he regained control of himself, and was able to be happy again--James was gone, and now that they had this new power on their side, dealing with the Other Walter would be a piece of cake.

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Eileen could only close her eyes and smile; now it was almost over. They had taken James out of the game, somehow, and for that she felt an unfathomable gratitude towards Heather. Now, there was only the matter of dealing with this "Other Walter," and then they could be done with it. This whole mess with rituals and gods and demons and other worlds could finally be put to rest...finally.

She took a moment to be really satisfied with herself, and all that she had contributed to Heather's making it this far.

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Douglas was the only one who knew that it wasn't over yet.

The other two had placed their trust in her because they didn't know what he knew--they didn't know what she was capable of. Nor did they know that she was hell-bent on bringing her father back from the dead. He had been sure of that as soon as he'd first heard of it, when she'd first described the ritual to him. Of course, after that little speech from Walter just now, his fear regarding that situation had nearly trebled.

Somehow, it had seemed that James had performed a ritual to bring his wife back from the dead. But according to what Walter had said...it hadn't been Mary at all. It had been something else entirely. But James hadn't seemed too ready to admit to that.

Thinking back on the passage he'd read from _Crimson Ceremony,_ he reflected on the fact that Heather had been lying to him; she hadn't wanted him to know that she was going to perform the ritual to ressurect the dead herself, because she'd known he would think she was crazy. She'd even used the death of Douglas' own son to strike a chord with him, to try to get him to work with her. He'd resented that, but being the reasonable man he was, couldn't entirely deny her. So he'd agreed to come along and be with her when she came to the realization that it could not be done--that her father could not be brought back from the dead, or just discovered, a la "oops-we-accidentally-buried-the-wrong-guy-and-your-dad's-still-alive."

What he hadn't expected--and what scared him now more than anything they'd faced thus far--was the realization that her father _could_ be brought back from the dead. Or something could be brought back in his _place_, anyway--like Mary and James.

"Heather, no!"

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It was happening. It was finally, for real, one-hundred-percent _happening!_

The light was diminishing, and so was the shield constructed from it, but that no longer mattered; James had given up entirely, and now sat on his knees in the corner, cradling his face in his hands. He had failed, and that he knew it gave Heather a sick (but all the same, liberating) sense of satisfaction.

The swirling pillar of light cleared away at long last, leaving only the hunched-over form of the man in front of her. She came forward and knelt about ten feet away from it, as if afraid it might bite. "Is it...you?"

The body did not move.

"Did it work? Are you there?"

Still no response.

Heather felt her heart sink. "Please...don't do this to me!"

Nothing.

Heather began to cry.

Perhaps it was the sound of her sobbing that reached through, or perhaps it had simply taken some time for everything to come together; either way, the man's eyes oh-so-slowly peeked open, and the head raised up off of the man's chest, and he regarded her with a warm, inviting expression, accentuated by a smile that could be nothing but fatherly.

"Cheryl," the man said, and extended his arms out to her. "Cheryl, I've missed you so much!"

END OF CHAPTER 32


	33. James' Last Stand

**Chapter 33**

**James' Last Stand**

_"We arrive at this place of no return, my brothers_

_Only to discover that our minds have led us away _

_So far from the painful truth of who we are."_

"Epiphany," _Bad Religion_

_(The Process of Belief)_

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As soon as he heard the voice, he knew it was too late.

He raised his head, locking his vision onto the newcomer, the man. The girl had succeeded; soon, this world, this beautiful place that he'd created--far from perfect, sure, but more than he deserved--would cease to exist, and it would be replaced by whatever insanity dwelled between her ears. Because her mind was lost, and had been ever since that day. The detective had refused to acknowledge this simple truth, and because of that, they would all die.

James managed to climb to his feet, but a sudden and powerful cramp in his waist caused him to hesitate before moving. He glanced down to his side and saw the bullet-wound, placed there by Walter only moments ago. Already, his power was leaving his body. Soon, this husk would no longer serve him, and would become just that once again--a husk. His true body was long gone, damaged beyond use. That had been the condition for his power--abandonment of himself. It had been necessary to allow the true Rebirth, the true Redemption, to begin.

The girl had completed the ritual now, as well. Which meant that she had summoned her Center. But what she _didn't_ know, what that nosy bastard from the hospital had never told her, was that _she_ now had a price to pay, as well. A trade-off for the Rebirth. She would get her father back--a version of him, anyhow--but not before giving up something of her own.

What frightened James the most was that he didn't think she would've cared, even if she _had _known.

"Dad," James heard her say. He watched the girl--the fool, the idiot--take a step closer to the man. She hesitated, though, as if she were unable to believe that it was really him.

"It's alright," the man said. "Don't be afraid." He remained in a kneeling position, and held his arms out to her. "Everything will be alright now. The worst of it is over."

"_Don't listen!_" James cried out, unsure as to why he should want to help her after all she had done--after she had ruined what little semblance of a life he could be said to have had. "_Don't fall for it! He's not real!_"

"That sounds sort of like an admission," Walter shouted from across the room, grinning that sadistic grin of his. He was evil; James knew this. That was why he'd stopped James from interfering with Heather's ritual--he wanted to see her summon her Center. But...why?

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Douglas had been about to shout _Heather, don't!,_ when he'd heard James say almost the same thing: "_Don't listen! Don't fall for it! He's not for real!_"

"What the...?" he mumbled, glancing over towards the fallen tyrant.

James was no longer the intimidating monster he'd been only moments ago; it seemed as though the completion of Heather's little spell had done quite a number on him. His body was greatly withered from its previous size--still moderately built, but nothing like the behemoth it had been--and his jacket no longer fit; it draped over him like a curtain, obscuring his hands from view, giving him the look of a small child wearing Daddy's favorite coat. His rifle was nowhere to be seen; Douglas began to think that it had disappeared altogether when he finally spotted it, just a couple of feet to the left of Heather's standpoint near the middle of the vast quarters.

_Heather!_

"Heather, get away from him!" Douglas shouted, rising to his feet. "It's an il--" He was struck from behind before he could finish. He hit the ground with a muffled _oomph!_

"Shut up, Danny-boy," Walter's voice said, and then Douglas felt a cold circle of steel on the back of his neck. "I don't want to kill you--that would be truly unnecessary--but if you keep it up, I will. Things have gone too far and gotten too delicate for your meddling."

Douglas opened his mouth to speak, and was silenced by the _click_ of the revolver's hammer.

"Just keep those happy thoughts coming," Walter said, and chuckled. "That's what George Stark always used to say." He leaned down, and the next words he spoke were almost directly into the detective's ear. "You remember George Stark, don't you? From 'The Dark Half?'"

"Never read it," Douglas spat.

"Aww," Walter said, and pulled away...but the gun stayed on his back. "That's too bad. If you get out of here alive, you should check it out. Interesting take on the duality of human nature."

Douglas rolled his eyes; if he got out of this alive, the first thing he would do would be to kick Walter's teeth in so hard they came out his ass. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "You saved us...so why are you doing this?"

"Oh, I didn't save _you,_" Walter said. "I mean, I can see how you'd reach that conclusion, but no...I was saving _her._" He tipped a gun towards Heather. "I needed her to finish the ritual, so James would lose his power. He's a real pain in the neck, see."

"Why her?" Douglas asked through furiously clenched teeth.

"Long story short," Walter said, "I can take her Center down a lot more efficiently than I can James'. See, James has been at this for years now--he hid his center away so well that I would almost certainly have never found her, had I taken up looking. Even after I left this mortal coil, I had a sentry waiting in the wings here, trying to find her, but to no avail--she was too deeply ingrained into his mind, his world. But _Heather_...she doesn't know _crap_ about the way this works." He raised the gun in his free hand to his cheek. "And as long as I have _these_ babies, taking care of Perry Mason over there will be my pleasure."

"You're going to _kill_ him?" Douglas said, again wondering (a) what the hell was going on, and (b) exactly whose side Walter was on. "How? Why?"

"Ah, I don't want to spoil anything for you," Walter said. "Just wait and see."

Douglas felt a hand rummaging through his pockets, and he started to reach for it.

"Nah-ah," Walter said, and dug the barrel of the gun deeper into his back. "Don't move. I'm just...eliminating a potential threat. No harm done." He took Douglas' gun out from its holster. "Here we go!"

Douglas thought about cursing him out, and decided it probably wouldn't do any good. Might get him shot--probably not, but it was better not to take the chance, especially with no visible gain (other than remote satisfaction) in any case.

From behind, there was the sound of the clip sliding out and hitting the floor, followed by Walter's voice. "Won't be needing _that_ anymore." Then--he didn't see it, but he knew it all the same--Walter turned and hurled the gun off into the distance, to be lost amongst the piles of rancid mulch and, in all likelihood, never to be found.

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Henry watched in disbelief as Walter disarmed Douglas, tossing his gun off into the surrounding mess. He seemed to have abruptly changed sides altogether; but _why_? What could possibly be his motive, this late in the game?

Then, just ten or twenty feet to his right, crouching over near one of the larger and higher piles of mulch-stuff, he could see James, huffing and gasping for breath. His size had been drastically reduced, and his coat hung over him like a blanket. He was shouting.

"It's not what you think," James said, the fight all but gone from his voice. "You _must not touch him!_"

"What's going to happen, then?" Henry asked, setting their previous rivalry aside--not that he, personally, had ever really _had_ a rivalry with James, that was more Douglas' and Heather's area, but still.

James turned to him with a look of disbelief on his face.

"Well?"

"He'll destroy her," James said curtly.

"He's going to _kill_ her?"

"Not at all," James said, and though his expression was stern, Henry thought he saw the faintest twinkle of victory in the man's eyes--_Ha, serves the bitch right._ "He'll make her _wish _he'd killed her. But she won't die."

Henry shivered, and immediately locked onto Heather.

_I've got to stop her!_

"No need," James said, and before Henry could question him, the man in the green coat was up and running towards Heather.

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"Dad," Heather repeated, sobbing gently. "I can hear your voice. Is it really you?"

"You should know," Harry said, not moving. "You brought me here."

Heather hesitated for a moment. Then: "Yes."

"Come to me, Heather," Harry said, his voice soothing, empathic. "Come on home. You've worked hard enough."

"Oh," Heather said, stepping closer. "I know! I've wanted to see you...for so long. I didn't think it would work--Douglas said it wasn't realistic to expect it to--but now...now I see he was wrong. They were _all_ wrong!"

"That's right," Harry said. "They've always been wrong. You were true to your beliefs. Now come and get your reward."

"_Stop!_"

Both Heather and Harry turned towards the sound.

"Who is it?" Heather asked. She didn't recognize James' voice, robbed of its thunder as it now was. "Who's there?"

"Just a rat," Harry said in a soothing tone of voice. Then, turning towards James: "What do you want?"

"Shut up, you monster," James said. "I know what you are."

"Heather," Harry said, "do you know this man? He looks so..."

"James," Heather said, seething. "He tried to kill me. He _did_ kill one of my friends."

"Well," Harry said, sounding a bit angry but also much more in control of himself than Heather. "We'll just have to worry about him later, won't we?"

"Right," Heather said. "Right now...let's just..."

"Be together," Harry finished for her, and then she came to him.

"_No!_" James said, but it was too late. He could only watch with terror...and, he was ashamed to admit now--now that the last of that thing's power over him was fading, now that this was all starting to feel like a particularly lucid nightmare--a degree of sick amusement.

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That was when it clicked for Douglas--everything about James, everything about everything he'd done...all his motives...he understood now, now that it was too late to heed the man's warnings. It always seemed to be too late. Why did such realizations so often come after the fact? Why could he have not seen it before? Now he could only feel a deep, penetrating sorrow--sorrow at what had happened and why, sorrow at chances missed, sorrow at opportunities lost.

He closed his eyes, waited for the right moment...as soon as Walter moved--even an inch would do--he would make his move. He might live. He would probably die--struggling with a gun to your back wasn't even _in_ the book of tricks--but in the end, he would know that he had done his part, had tried his best to fulfill his promise to protect Heather to the very end--something he had failed to do in the past.

But until then, he had time to ponder that _James had been right all along._

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James, Heather, and Harry stood in a perfect triangle, right near the center of the room. Between them was the makeshift altar Heather had used to perform the ritual.

"I'm so thirsty," Harry said. "Do you have something to drink?"

"Sure!" Heather said, and took the jar and the goblet. "You probably feel that way because you have to drink this before it's complete."

"Of course," Harry said. "Bring it here, would you?"

"You still have a chance," James said. "Heather, you can put a stop to this!"

"Go to hell," Heather said, echoing James' own sentiment from earlier. "You never showed me--or Douglas, or Officer Herring--and mercy, and I'm not gonna give you any more."

"Just leave us be," Harry said, and regarded James with an impatient look, a look that offered James only the slightest glimpse into the red mass within.

"You only don't believe because you can't see," James said, reaching out for Heather.

"I only can't see because _you_ blinded me," she said, and pushed his hand away. "Now _leave us alone!_"

"Please," James said, trying to reach out once more.

"Here," Heather said--she'd poured the contents of the jar into the goblet, leaving a small pool of white fluid in the very bottom; cradling the goblet in her arms, she offered it to Harry.

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"Oh, _shit!_" Walter said, and Douglas immediately felt the pressure release from the small of his back. Walter had moved the gun.

_Here goes nothing,_ Douglas thought, and rolled quickly to the left. He didn't knock Walter over (as he'd hoped he would) because Walter was running towards the trio at the center of the room. Instead, he came to a stop only a few feet to the left of his original position. Now kneeling, he regarded Walter with bewilderment.

"No you _don't,_ my friend," Walter said, and fired at Heather three times. All three shots went wild--none of them contacted the strange force-field that had prevented James from killing her; they simply missed altogether.

"It's too late," James said, a portrait of solemnity, backing away from Heather and Harry. "It's too late, punk."

"Not enough for ya, eh?" Walter said, and this time he turned his gun on Harry. He fired nine more shots in quick and flawless succession, so that both revolvers were empty.

Henry, watching from the other side of the room, missed the first three because he blinked.

Harry did not respond; he only looked over at Walter, his face graced by shock.

"Dad?" Heather asked, nearing hysteria. "_Dad?!_"

"That's right, asshole," Walter said. "The casings for these bullets are made from one-hundred percent Aglaophotis compound! Remember, I can play that game, too!"

_Aglaophotis? _Douglas thought. _Isn't that...an herb? Or is it a stone? I can't remember..._

Then again, it probably didn't matter. The rules of this place were as broken as those of any hacked video game; if Walter had deemed bullets made of plants or stones necessary, then he would probably have functional bullets made from plants or stones.

Harry rose to his feet, all nine bullet-holes showing nicely on the front of his coat. Walter had struck home with each shot; they formed an almost perfect circle around the center of his chest.

"Bet you didn't see _that_ coming," Walter said. "Go ahead and get started packing, 'cause it's a _long_ walk back to whatever rock you crawled out from under."

But Harry only stood...and smiled.

"What's so funny?" Walter asked, frowning.

Without answering, Harry snatched the goblet from his daughter's hands and downed the liquid inside with one swallow, then cast the goblet aside. It clattered harmlessly to the floor--echoing the effect of Walter's bullets, or so it seemed.

"Heather," Walter said, starting towards her but never taking his eyes off of Harry, "you need to get away from him right now. That's not your father."

"What are you talking about?" Heather said, turning her head rapidly back and forth between Walter and Harry. She still hadn't grown accustomed to not having to look around while talking. "Of course he is!"

"Get away," Walter said. "_Now!_"

"Shut up," Harry said, and the next thing Walter knew, he was face-down on the ground, bleeding from his mouth and nose.

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James saw his chance; he seized Heather around the waist, hefted her up, and started carrying her away from Harry. At first she didn't realize what was happening, but once she heard James speak _You idiot _into her ear, she began to scream and kick. "_Dad! Help me!_"

Harry turned from Walter--who now lay face-down on the floor about a hundred feet back, his legs canted awkwardly against one of those piles of mulch--to James. "Heather," he said, but his voice was no longer soothing.

James was afraid to notice that "Harry" was no longer making an effort to hide the red fire behind his eyes.

"I tried to tell you," James said, and then he felt something crash into his gut with such force that he feared it would come out the other side. No such thing happened, but he _did_ get an all-expenses-paid trip to the other side of the room; he landed about twenty feet from the eastern furnace-like end of the grand machine that covered the north wall. He landed on his face, cutting it on the grated floor in several places during the subsequent skid much as Henry had done only minutes before.

Then, before anyone else could react, Harry seized Heather's arm and pulled her close to him in a bear-hug.

"Dad," Heather said gladly, burying her face in his chest.

"Cheryl," Harry said, closing his arms tightly around her. "Thank you."

"It was nothing," Heather said, smiling...but her smile began to fade a moment later.

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_"Heather!_" Douglas bellowed at the top of his lungs, racing to reach her in time. But there was no way he could have ever made it in time, even if that _hadn't_ been the fastest he could run. It all happened too quickly--and really, it had all been over by the time Heather first laid hands on Harry. Once they had established contact, there was no saving her.

She first began to notice that something was wrong shortly after entering into that embrace with the thing she believed to be her father. She muttered something under her breath--probably _Dad_--and then began to struggle against him. He only held her tighter, and quietly hummed something in her ear that Douglas was now close enough to hear: "It'll all be over before you know it."

Douglas didn't know if it had been the words or if it had been some sensation that tipped her off; all he knew was that, from that point on, she knew she was lost. She began to scream, to fight against the hold Harry had on her, but it was no good; she could not escape.

"Just be calm," Harry said, and stroked the hair on the back of her head. "You'll feel some pain, but it'll pass. Then we'll be together."

Heather's struggles began to weaken, and then stopped altogether.

"_Heather!_" Douglas repeated, wishing like hell that he had his gun. He glanced around, hoping that maybe his eye would cross it against the odds and that he could grab it, kill this thing, and save Heather...but no such thing happened. The closest thing he saw was Walter's temporarily defunct body; he was lying face-down against one of those piles of mulch off to the left of Heather's little altar, no more than thirty or fourty feet.

He turned back towards Heather, intending to ram Harry and perhaps get him off of her...but that was when he saw for himself that she was beyond saving.

Harry had let go of her, but his embrace was no longer necessary; a series of long, thin and meaty tendrils extended from the tips of her fingers and connected to Harry's own palms, which no longer bore any sort of human resemblance whatsoever--the area between his neck and waist, including both arms, had become some kind of pulsating, veinous abberation, maintaining a humanoid outline but little else in the way of consistency, latching onto Heather and gradually taking her in. Her face was tensed against an agonized scream, as she was obviously in much pain--with that much blood streaming from her hands, such pain was expected. The thing that was not Harry continued to pull on her, all the while grinning like an idiot.

"Motherf..." Douglas halted...and remembed Walter's guns. He turned towards the body of Walter.

Still face-down, not moving. Good.

Douglas bolted.

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She couldn't think clearly at all, could have no other thoughts in her head besides pain, pain, and pain. She fought the pain--not the embrace, for it would soon be over, but the _pain_. All that mattered was finishing the job. Then...then, she could finally _rest..._.

She felt her eyelids growing heavy...she closed them, relaxed the muscles in her arms and legs, trying to ignore the pain. She remembered a time many years ago--during flu season in the sixth grade--when her father had told her not to tense her arms while getting a shot, because that would only make it worse.

The pain did not abate, however. In fact, it only seemed to have grown worse. She could only close her eyes...endure...and wait. She had endured so _much_ up to this point, so much fear, so much anguish, so much isolation...and now, there was only this last ordeal, this last test that she was determined to pass. Then she could be at peace, at long last.

Then--as if the first two hadn't been enough--she felt yet _another _tendril shoot out and grip her around the mouth, cutting off her air supply. She tried to scream, but could produce no sound. Her heart rate tripled. Blood ran down her chin.

_"Daddy!" _she managed to whine, but in a voice that was barely audible. It was only upon hearing her own dismal, grief-stricken voice that she knew there would be no hope for her.

"It's alright," Harry said, still cradling her head in his arm. "Do what you have to do, baby. It'll be over before you know it." She was disturbed and amazed to find that she could hear his next words in the center of her brain: _I love you._

So she did what she had to do: no longer able to contain her agony, she began to scream.

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Douglas reached Walter's body, knelt before it and immediately reached for one of the guns...but was frozen in place when he felt the barrel of the _other_ one pressed against his neck.

"Lookin' for this?" Walter asked him, climbing to his feet. "So solly, Cholly, but this'un's mine." He pointed off into the distance. "Yers is over yonder."

"For God's _sake,_" Douglas pleaded--like a damned cockroach, here was Walter again, alive and well--"he's _killing _her! You've got to stop him!"

Walter looked over at the horror taking place in the center of the room. "Aw, mother_fuck_!" With that, he left Douglas on the floor once again. Douglas took no chances; he immediately picked himself up and started a stumbling half-run towards Walter as he rose to his feet.

"Just _die,_ you...thing!" Walter said, and shot the Harry-thing again. It was impossible for Douglas to tell where Walter had been aiming, but it didn't matter--as expected, the shot had gone wild.

"Damn," Douglas whispered under his breath, halting in mid-step. A counter-attack rush didn't seem to be in the cards.

"How can that _be?"_ Walter raged. "I _hit _him! I _know_ I did! My aim was _perfect!_"

Harry turned his head, still grinning that insane grin, and spat. All six bullets came at once, as if from a submachine gun.

Douglas was quick enough to hit the floor before taking a bullet, but Walter took three in the chest. He stumbled backward, clutching the entry wounds, which were smoking as if from an acid burn.

"Shi...shit," Walter said, breathing heavily. "What...no!"

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Heather wasn't able to physically see the thing that was not quite killing her, but in her mind, she saw it with sudden and terrifying clarity--a gaping maw of fleshy putty-like substance, veinous and certainly infectious, red and meaty yet with the face of her father, open wide and ready to take her in whole. She screamed, pulling against it now, overwhelmed by fear and pain, but now she could feel it lifting her _up into the air,_ and now she could feel

(_see)_

her face

(_merging with)_

disappearing into

_(his face)_

the maw. The sensation was immediate and awful, unlike anything she had ever experienced before, even in that insane other world created by a girl named Alessa almost three years ago. For it was now that her mind first touched the mind of the thing that was not Harry Mason, and in it she glimpsed the horrible truth--she was going to have her wish. She was going to be with her father, or at least this thing which _claimed_ to be her father, this thing she had worked so hard to birth...she was going to spend the rest of eternity with him, living on inside him as a part of him.

She tried to scream, tried to cry, tried to plead with God for mercy--she felt as if she were being skinned alive--but alas, no one could hear her. No one _would_ hear her. Her judgement had been passed.

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"_No!_"

Douglas dropped to his knees, throwing his hands up over his face, watching through his laced fingers as first Heather's shoulders vanished into "Harry's", seeming to _blend _with them, and then her face disappeared into the face of the thing as well, the thing that was not Harry and had never been. Douglas could feel Heather's silent screams, penetrating to the very center of his brain--the terror, the anger, the agony...and, Douglas was disgusted to find, a sort of _joy_--and he felt like he might simply explode from the weight of it all. He surpressed her terrified cries with one of his own.

Up ahead, Walter continued to shoot, seemingly without reloading his weapons between magazines--either that, or he was reloading so quickly that Douglas couldn't follow him.

"Mother_fucker,_" Walter spat, trying to sound angry but succeeding only in sounding afraid. His chest was still smoking, and his face was growing pale. "Just _die_ already! You _hate _Aglaophotis!"

But the thing wouldn't even acknowledge him; it only stared down at its prey with those hateful red eyes, grinning, taking its meal.

And then, all at once...it stopped.

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Henry watched all of this happen with disbelief, unable to move. His heart was racing, urging his body to _move, move, MOVE,_ but his mind was operating at thirty-three percent and falling. Everything seemed to be happening in slow-mo; he saw Douglas, running towards Walter, who was shooting at Harry, presumably trying to save Heather but to no avail; he saw Heather, not being consumed by Harry but seeming to _become_ him, to bond with his flesh and become one with him, her hands uniting with his hands, her body with his body, her face with his face.

Not too far behind him, near the edge of the machine, he saw James, heard him moaning faintly. He thought about trying to help him...but that was when everything stopped being slow-motion. That was when everything simply _stopped. _If this had all been a movie, and a musical score had been playing, it would have stopped at this point.

The only sound in the room was Walter's gunfire, and his aggravated curses, though even that sounded faint, drowned-out, unimportant. The supposed madman was not doing nearly as well as his language seemed to suggest.

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Walter stood no more than thirty feet from the Harry-thing, still shooting. He knew that his gun wouldn't ever click empty--as long as he was in this place, his gun would have all the ammunition it needed, as long as he wanted it to. That wasn't his worry. No, his worry was with the Aglaophotis--he'd thought for sure that it would expel this...this _demon,_ this _thing,_ from the form it had taken, and thus end this little confrontation. But not only had the Harry-thing _not _reacted in any visible way to the Aglaophotis...it had fired it _back _at _him._

And he didn't know why, but the stuff really fucking _burned._ It seemed to be taking hold in his body like a poison, spreading through him. He supposed that might have something to do with one or more of his parts, and their underlying nature.

Well, it didn't matter now. All that _did_ matter was defeating this thing that took many faces but had none, that claimed to be many things but was no one thing. It was only what you wanted it to be...whether you _knew_ what you wanted or not. And sometimes--as was evident in this case--there were little catches, loopholes. It was like the genie in that one movie, the one that gave you your wish, but always threw in something techical to screw you over. Except this time, you didn't even _realize_ you were being screwed. No, it was more akin to getting drunk, finding some hot chick and screwing her real nice, only to wake up the next morning to realize that it was a dude...except, pretend that you never did wake up. He supposed there was a sick sort of reason to it--if you never knew what was really going on, then you could never be unhappy about it. Ignorance is bliss, and the blissful don't revolt, as they said.

_But that's no way to live,_ Walter thought, taking aim once again, bracing against the fire in his chest. He'd only meant to allow Harry to be reborn, then to put him in his gunsights and end him. He'd never intended for it to go this far--this thing was an embodiment of bad religion all across the globe and anywhere else it existed, a thing that claimed to be something it wasn't and that received acknowledgement for it. And now, it was Walter's chance to do something about it.

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"Just stop, already," Harry said, rolling his eyes at Walter. "You're ill-advised in the exorcism department."

"_You_ stop," Walter said. Even to him, his words sounded like they belonged on an elementary schoolyard, but he could think of nothing better. He couldn't see into this thing's mind at all. "I know what I'm up against. Though, you can feel free to underestimate me--it's all the same to me."

"You're really full of yourself, aren't you?" the thing that was not Harry said. They were circling each other no less than ten feet apart, like Clint Eastwood and the villain in a Spaghetti Western, Harry with his hands in his jean pockets and Walter with both guns locked-on.

"I can afford to be," Walter agreed.

"Then you'd know that I can't be killed," Not-Harry said gleefully. "Now that I've become one with her."

"About that you're right," Walter said. "Maybe _you _can't be killed. But there are ways around that."

"If you believe that," Not-Harry said, "then you _are_ stupid. We are one, now. You can't kill _me_ because she protects me. You can't kill _her_, because _I_ protect her. Together, we are invincible."

Walter wiped his brow with one sleeve. "First off, you took her against her will. So she's not protecting you one whit."

"You know better than that," Not-Harry argued. "We are one. I am her. She is me. My will is hers. What I want, she wants. She didn't know that she wanted it until she got it, that's all."

To that, Walter had no reply.

"Then you acknowledge that," Not-Harry said. It was not a question. "If we're clear on that, then I'll ask you to get out of my way."

"The only way I can reach God is if I remove you first," Walter said, cocking his guns. "And if that's what I have to do...then I'll do it."

Not-Harry nodded. "I see. Persistent."

"Loyal," Walter corrected.

"Hah," Not-Harry scoffed. "How can you be loyal to something that you don't even know if you believe in?"

"That's for me to decide," Walter said...though he felt a familiar touch of uncertainty at Harry's words--much as, he hated to admit, he'd felt when Steven had spoken those fated last words to him earlier, beneath the hospital. "Worry about yourself."

"I don't have to," Not-Harry asserted.

Walter snorted.

"I'll tell you what," Not-Harry said. "I've got one more thing to take care of. Why don't you sit back and relax for a moment?"

"I don't know what you thin--" Before Walter could finish the sentence, he was slammed onto the ground on his back, and soon after he found that his limbs were locked tightly into place by some invisible force. "Hey!"

But the thing that was not Harry ignored him; it turned towards Henry.

"No freakin' way," Walter said, struggling. His limbs would not budge. "He's _mine,_ you hear me? Do what you want with the detective, but the Mother and the Receiver are _mine!_"

"Relax," the Harry-thing said, and approached James, who was still kneeling near the eastern end of the room, just a few feet away from Henry. "You can have _them_."

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James could not pull himself to his feet, no matter how hard he tried. Heather's not-quite-dying screams had chilled him, filled him with an urgency that was otherworldly in its strength, but still he could not move--his strength was spent. Even when he heard the steps of his murderer approaching, he was unable to act. Even when he felt his killer's hand seize the collar of his shirt and hoist him up into the air, he was unable to resist. Perhaps if he had known what was on the mind of the man (rather, the thing that was not quite a man) who would soon end his life, he would have tried harder.

The thing that was not Harry carried him to the edge of the machine at the eastern end of the room; when James saw the maw-like opening at the end of the machine, he deduced what was coming and began to thrash as wildly as was possible in his weakened state, but it did no good--the strength he had grown used to possessing over the past few years had been completely siphoned away, granted to this thing that was in no way human--this thing that had once taken the form of his beloved Mary, that he had pretty much allowed himself to think _was_ his beloved Mary--for whatever insane purposes it desired.

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The teeth.

If there was one image, taken from that moment underneath the museum, that would remain with Henry for the rest of his life--that would remind him that it had all been real, even on the lonely nights when he suspected that it had, indeed, just been a dream--it was the _teeth_.

He watched, dread building in his heart, as Harry seized James by the waist and the neck and manhandled him towards the oven-like entrance to the machine's inner workings, with James stumbling awkwardly all the while, his feet barely touching the ground. The machine's cutaway revealed the side of James' head as it slid face-down into the narrow piping just inside, affording Henry a viewpoint that, he would later decide, he could have easily done without.

James began to shout out and thrash weakly, trying to escape, but it did no good; Harry only pushed him even deeper, seemingly with no effort at all, as if James were no more powerful than a kitten. But none of that was what made it horrible. What made it horrible was the vertical descending piston, positioned perpendicular to the entry-way pipe through which James' head had been thrusted, that suddenly came down on James' head, crushing his skull inward.

James' scream was brief but high, and full of anguish. Colorful fluids spewed forth from his cranium as it caved inward, popping like a zit.

The piston halted, screeched against the resistance afforded by James' head, and then managed to proceed even further, mashing James' head against the bottom of the pipe.

Henry could watch no longer; the dying cry which issued from James at that moment froze his heart, chilled his bones...that cry..._that_ would also stay with him from then until the day he died, whether or not he had the visuals to accompany it. It rose slightly in pitch as James' esophagus was compressed, rose to a half-hearted scream, and finally tapered off as the mechanism of his vocal system was destroyed. The piston audibly slammed down against the bottom of the pipe, cushioned by James' innards, and then made a revolting _squelching_ sound as it rose up. Henry heard it come down a second time, no doubt trailing flecks of brain and bone as it scraped against the pipe through which it slid.

_Please, _Henry thought, heart racing and head pounding, _just let it be over. Just let him be dead, and let it be over._

He didn't want to--both his stomach and his chest _pleaded _with him not to--but he found himself looking back towards the site of the now mortal James' murder...and what he saw caused his lunch from the previous day to try to make a break for the floor in front of him. He managed to keep it down, but only after a grave exercise of willpower.

In the mess that had once been James' skull, _Henry could still see his teeth._ They had been squashed and broken, mostly crushed loose or otherwise separated from his gums, but there they were, protruding from the mess at all different awkward angles, like nails lost in a shattered treehouse. Seeing another human being's body in such a state of discord filled him with a sense of terrified urgency almost too great to bear: He knew then and there that he had to find Eileen, Douglas and Walter, and they had to get the _hell_ out of Dodge before things got too hot to handle...if they hadn't already.

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"Let this be an example to you," the thing that was not Harry said calmly, walking back towards the center of the room. He looked Henry in the eye, freezing the Receiver's blood--the guy's eyes were _red._ "Don't threaten me. You can't win. Just give up, and go home. I thank you for your help, but your work is done."

"What..." Henry began, speechless, rising to his trembling feet.  
"Yes?" the Harry-thing said, never taking his eyes away from Henry. That look was all business.

"_What did you do?!_" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He motioned with his head towards James' desecrated corpse, unwilling to actually look at it.

"I made him sorry," Harry said. "He hurt my daughter, so I made him pay. I gave her what she wanted."

"You did _no such_ thing," Walter's voice said. Both Henry and Harry turned towards him.

"What do you want, now?" Harry asked, as if Walter were no more than a bothersome fly. "You still haven't gotten it through your head that she came of her own free will, have you?"

Henry was dismayed to see that even Walter was trembling, shocked by what had just taken place--perhaps fear for his own life but probably because even _he_ was unnerved the potential of such brutality. Behind him, Douglas stared in horrified awe at the remains of James' corpse.

"You can't be allowed to live," Walter said, ignoring Harry's comment. "You're...you're everything I've always hated."

"I am that," Harry agreed. "So you want to fight me?"  
"I don't need to fight you to kill you," Walter said. "Right here, right now."

"You can't kill me now," Harry said. "You can try, but...I have Heather with me. We can't be killed as long as we are one." And with that, he turned and started towards the machine in the back of the room.

"_Stop!_" Walter shouted, and shot Harry one more time in the back, even though he knew it probably wouldn't help. He was just so _pissed!_

Harry continued walking; the bullet didn't even seem to pierce his jacket. Luckily for Walter, Henry thought, Harry expressed no interest in ending Walter's life as he had James'.

"Come _back,_ you coward!" Walter said, and chased after the abberation. Henry should've been glad that Walter had stopped shooting--thus no longer provoking Harry, at least not physically--but instead he read it as a sign of desperation on Walter's part, and he felt his heart grow heavy.

Harry ignored Walter completely, and after another few seconds, Henry saw, his body started to grow shorter--his head was lowering, and his feet were...wait, no. He wasn't getting _shorter,_ he was going _through the floor._ His feet had already disappeared below the mesh, as well as his legs up to just above the knees; moments later, only his neck protruded from the floor, and then even that was gone. It was as if he'd descended a staircase that only he could perceive.

Walter caught up to the point at which Harry had finally completed the transportation and dropped to his knees, pounding on the ground. "Come _back,_ you son of a bitch! _Come back so I can kill you!_"

However, the way he clutched his chest and grimaced shortly after speaking did much to wither the ferocity of his command.

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Henry didn't move--_couldn't_ move--until he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him firmly. He turned quickly, his heart pounding, expecting to see Harry--or something worse--standing over him. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw Douglas, in spite of the cold stare on the man's chiseled face. Douglas helped him to his feet without a word.

"Where's Eileen?" Henry asked, realizing that he had forgotten about her almost completely during the chaos.

"Right here," she said, and placed her hand on his right shoulder. He turned and saw her standing beside him, trembling.

"We've got to get out of here," Henry said, taking her hand and turning to Douglas. "This is our last chance."

"No," Douglas said.

"What?" Henry and Eileen voiced, again in unison.

"It's Heather," Douglas said. "I promised I'd save her. Hell, that's the only reason I'm even _in _this town." He paused, feeling in his pocket for a cigarette, and found that only one remained in the packet. He opted to leave it, though he wanted it badly--this was no time to just relax.

"Mr. Cartland," Eileen said softly, in the tone of voice one might use when trying to urge a spoiled child to leave a store without buying a new toy.

"What?" Douglas asked curtly, meeting her eyes, which he found patronizing. "I could've saved her three years ago, but I didn't. Because I let her go, she wound up here in Silent Hill. Because she wound up here in Silent Hill, she met that guy, Mark. Because of what Mark told her, she was turned on to a means of seeing her father alive again. And because I didn't try to change her mind when she made her intentions obvious, we're standing here right now."

Henry shook his head. "This isn't your fault. You couldn't have possibly known--"

"It doesn't matter," Douglas said in a voice almost too low to hear. "I shouldn't have turned my back on her then." Then, looking into Henry's eyes. "I'll understand if the two of you want to leave without me. But this is something I have to do."

"Oh," a voice said from behind, catching the three of them by surprise, "you're not going _anywhere,_ my friends!"

They turned in almost perfect synchronization to see Walter approaching them with guns drawn (though not aimed).

"Walter," Henry said, backing away. "I don't know what you're thinking, but--"

"Oh, cut it," Walter said gleefully. "Why would you _want_ to leave, anyway? The party's right here! And...it's almost..._over!_"

"What are you doing, you psycho?" Douglas asked, irritated. "I thought you were--"

"On your side?" Walter interrupted. He turned to Henry...and words weren't necessary for Henry to realize what was going on.

"Eileen, _go,_" Henry said.

"What?" Eileen asked, reluctantly taking her eyes from Walter in favor of Henry.

Walter made his move: he lunged for Eileen. Henry was just a second too quick; he caught Walter's outstretched wrist and tackled the madman to the ground, knocking his guns loose and sending them clattering across the floor in two directions.

"_Henry!_" Eileen screamed, backing away with her hand over her mouth, unsure of what to do--she could only watch, dumbstruck.

Walter punched Henry in the jaw, then kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying off of Walter and onto his back. Two seconds later he was stumbling away from them, no longer in possession of his firearms.

"Where are you going?" Douglas asked. He noticed that Walter was clutching his side again--probably the bullet-wound (or wounds) inflicted by Harry. Perhaps Henry's harsh reaction had aggravated the wounds?

"We'll take care of this later," Walter said, raising his strained voice as he lost ground on them. "Right now, I have some work to do."

"So...wait," Douglas mumbled, catching Henry's and Eileen's attention. "Why not kill you now, if that's what he's after?"

"Because he can't," Henry said. "He's too weak now. Look, he's limping."

"Let's go after him, then!" Eileen said. "We can get him now, while he's vulnerable!"

"Let him go," Douglas said, watching the madman stumble towards the machine at the back of the room. "He's helpless now."  
Henry turned to the detective. "It doesn't matter. We need to stop him now--we might not get another chance." He started towards his would-be killer...but Douglas placed a firm grip on his shoulder.

"Leave it to me," he said.

"What?"

"Leave it to me," the detective reiterated. "Walter's going to save Heather, right? Well, he may be weak, but he's still a powerhouse. You saw the way he put one over on James, before the guy even _saw_ him."

Henry only glared at him, his eyes seeming to say _And your point is?_

"My point is, I came here to save Heather. You came here to stop Walter. Walter is weak now, and he's going to try and stop Harry."

"I still don't see how--"  
"I'll follow him," Douglas said. "I'll follow him to whatever Hell that bastard has taken Heather to. I'll use him to help me kill Harry and save Heather...and then I'll take care of him."

Henry's eyes grew wide with understanding. "But...can you?"

"Yes," Douglas said.

"Why?"

"Because," he said, reaching for his gun solely out of habit only to find that it was no longer there. "You and I both know what's going to happen when this all blows over."

After a long hesitation, Henry spoke: "Things fall apart." Quoting some piece of literature from God knew where.

"Without that _thing_ to hold it up," Douglas said, "this reality will probably break down...along with whoever is inside it."

Eileen shot Douglas a look that said _WHAt now?_

"That's right," Douglas said. "Before, it was James. Now, it's Heather. And Walter intends to make the transition to himself--he thinks he's going to be able to avoid making the same mistakes as they did, but that's the joke of it all--they _both_ thought that. Just like James thought that of whoever owned this world before him. When Heather loses control, and Walter isn't there to step in...this place will fall apart. And you two...you need to be gone when that happens. If you die here, Walter wins."

"But what about you?" Henry said. "You can't just--"

"I'll do what I can," Douglas said. "But...you have to understand." He took a step towards Henry, placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "I'm a lone wolf by nature. Even when I got married all those years ago, I managed to screw that up. And then...then my son was shot in a bank robbery. Then, _years_ later...along comes Heather."

"That's not--" Henry started to say.

"I got her into this in the first place, anyway," Douglas continued. "That Claudia hired _me_ to find her, and I did. Even as far back as that, I'd promised to see things through with this ordeal of Heather's. I told her I'd help her as much as I could. And you know what? I didn't. I didn't, and because of that, we're all here. So...if I can go down there and save her, and survive, and wake up tomorrow...then it's all good. If I don't--if I go down there, do what I can, and can't save her, or I do save her but I don't survive...then that's all good, too. Because I'll have done my part. You see?"

Henry shook his head slowly. "Douglas, you don't have to do this."

"That's where you're wrong," Douglas said. "I _do_ have to do this. It's all I have left."

Henry bit his lip, obviously seeking words that would not come to him.

"Please," Eileen said. "There's got to be another way!"

"There isn't," Douglas said, turning. "Maybe _later, _when it's too late, you'll think of something else, but _now_ you should get going. I don't know how much time we have, but I know it's not much."

Henry hesitated for a long time--so long that Douglas began to fear he wasn't going to be reasonable--but then, finally, he nodded...but slowly. "Alright, then."

"Henry!" Eileen said, appalled.

"Eileen, don't," Henry said. He turned to her, meeting the hurt look in her eyes.

"Henry, this is crazy--"

"I know," Henry said. "This world is crazy."

Eileen scoffed. "I can't believe you'd just leave him like this!" Eileen said. "After all he's done to help us!"

"Lady," Douglas said, sounding irritable, "I ain't done _crap_ for you or your boyfriend. All I did was get him arrested, which is part of what brought him here in the first place. So technically, it's even my fault that you two wound up in this mess."

"Come now--" Eileen started.

"Heather was my second chance," Doulgas said. "If you can't understand that...then I'm sorry."

To this, Eileen had nothing. She looked to Henry, but he was equally at a loss for words.

"So are we in agreement?" Douglas said.

Eileen opened her mouth to scream _Hell no!_, but when she felt Henry's hand on her shoulder, she felt all the fire run out of her. When she turned to meet his stare, it was cold and hard...but true.

"Silence gives consent," Douglas said, and started off in the direction that Walter had taken. The madman was nowhere to be seen; Henry took a moment to wonder if the detective would even be able to find a way down to wherever Walter had followed Harry and Heather.

"Henry," Eileen whispered, biting back tears, "this isn't right. We should help him."

"We can't," Henry said.

"But _why not?_" Eileen whined, frustrated.

"Because," Henry said, taking her shoulders and staring her straight in the eye. "It's not our decision to make."

"But--" Eileen said.

"Think about it," Henry said. "Really...he's the only one that can do this, now."

Eileen could only stare back, her vocabulary strained and empty for the moment, wishing like hell that there was something she could say, some magic word or phrase or sentence she could utter, that would change all of this, make them approach the final scene of this terrible play _together_, make them all come out alive and well, allow them to live on for a hundred more years to talk about the things they'd seen here and how they'd overcome them.

But in the end, there was nothing. Nothing at all.

END OF CHAPTER 33


	34. Revelation

**Chapter 34**

**Revelation**

_"Use your time to memorize the lullaby of the day_

_Process the data and throw it away_

_And each little question doesn't get me thinkin'_

_And the lies of my life still buzz around my brain."_

"Sad State Of Affairs," _Descendents_

_(Rock Against Bush Vol. 1)_

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The great machine wasn't anywhere near as intimidating as it had seemed from a distance. This might have had something to do with the fact that Douglas had just seen James obliterated by it, but probably not; if anything, that would probably have affected him in the converse. No, he thought it was more because of the atmosphere; over here, some of the _evil_ feeling in the air was thinner, somehow--as if it were concentrated back there, at the center of the room. That might subsequently have something to do with Harry's departure...or it might not.

The machine rose up before him, peaking at several hundred feet and spanning off to the left and right, out of sight. The darkness didn't seem to be thinning out at all; it was heavy here, heavier than in any place he'd been thus far.

And he had a feeling it was only going to get heavier.

Sighing, he glanced around, still trying to figure out where Walter had gone during their squabble earlier. He wasn't in the room anymore, and he certainly hadn't taken the same route through which Douglas and co. had come--unless, of course, he'd weaved through the piles of mulch-like debris and sneaked back that way when they'd been talking. He supposed it was possible...though a bit unlikely. Walter was almost certainly chasing after Harry. He wouldn't have his guns, of course, but that wouldn't stop him.

"But where did you go?" he whispered, trying to spot any inconsistency in the pattern of the strange engine-like machine that might give away the location of a secret door, or something...but there was nothing. He took a step forward...and felt his foot smack something, heard a faint _clack._ The clattering of metal sliding across metal.

Apparently, he'd just kicked Walter's revolver a ways off to the right. Feeling suddenly hopeful--though he didn't know why, as he'd seen how useless the thing was against the only enemies on which he would presumably be using it--he picked up the gun and put it into his shoulder holster, in place of his old pistol. Who knew? It might come in handy, even if he didn't actually shoot anybody with it. Besides, its weight was comforting; the feel of it as it slid it into the holster was like coming home again.

Off to the right, Douglas noticed something odd; some kind of large concavity in the engine-like machine, mostly obscured by a large six-foot-high pile of mulch directly in front of him. His brow furrowed...and his heart began to race. Circling around the huge mound, the concavity came into full view--it was a sort of service area, a platform set just into the concavity, which was probably twenty feet wide and ten or so high. Most of the way up the left-hand wall, not too far from the obstructive mulch, was a wooden key-board from which several sets of keys, each bound by an unmarked ring, hung on hooks. There looked to be about seven sets in all.

_For what, I wonder?_

It didn't matter; he didn't think he would need them. Not now, not ever.

Against the right-hand wall was a small podium which rose barely up to Douglas' waist, as if it had been designed for either children, midgets, or something else altogether; he had to bend over to get a good look at its forward-canted surface.

On it were two conspicuously-labelled buttons, one red and one green.

The green one, _Up._

The red one, _Down._

It was only then that he realized what the concavity was.

_Not a service _area _at all, _he thought.

The area where the floor beneath him separated from the rest of the room was plated and lined with red-and-black hazard paint, not grated, as the rest of the room was--this was an _elevator_. But not just any elevator...it looked like a _military _elevator, like the kind one might find in a base.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, hesitant...it wasn't so much that he didn't want to go down, as it was that he was afraid of what he might find. He wanted to go ahead and take a moment, a moment he knew he didn't have but felt inclined to take nonetheless, to let his imagination run wild and predict any possible threat that might be waiting for him down below. He thought he knew...but it was better to be safe. He would be able to help nobody if he wound up dead right at the foot of the elevator shaft.

_Don't think,_ a voice in his head whispered--surely his heart, speaking to him in this moment of hesitation--_just act. There's no time for thinking; you're either in, or you're out._

"I hate that," Douglas mumbled, but he knew it was right. There was a time for diplomacy and thought, and there was a time for action. Diplomacy was a thing for presidents, for people behind desks, people who made big decisions. Action was for the people who upheld those decisions. Right now, he played the role of the latter.

Washing these thoughts from his mind, Doulgas released his deep breath with a sigh...and firmly pressed the red button, marked _Down._

For a moment, nothing happened. Doulgas was beginning to fear that perhaps the lift was broken...and then it whined into life, gears whirring and tracks moving, and he was going down.

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The shaft was long and dark, and canted at a slight downard angle; at first Douglas' field of vision was sifted through with a red tint--most likely thanks to the strange red bulbs, presumably emergency lights of some kind, lit within carefully-carved cavities in the wall to either side of the platform, humming with incessant, insectoid life. Only moments later, red became a faded gray, and gray became a darker gray...and then gray became black.

Douglas fished helplessly in his coat pocket for his flashlight, suddenly worried that it might not function. He found it and enjoyed a sigh of relief when it clicked on. The sigh diminished, however, once he laid eyes on his new surroundings.

The walls of the shaft were no longer that somewhat-rusted metal color; now, they were hopelessly brownish-red, the color of blood-drenched rust. He knew just by looking that it wasn't even _dried _blood--the telltale reflection of light off of the walls indicated that the blood coating them was, indeed, fresh. And he knew it was blood--of course it was, what else _could_ it be?

_But whose is it?_ he wondered. _Or is it anyone's at all? Is this just here to try to scare me?_

None of that mattered, he supposed; all that mattered now was reaching the bottom of this shaft, getting to Heather, stopping Harry and Walter, somehow. It seemed impossible now...but didn't it always, in the movies, right before the hero miraculously pulled through? Like the line from that U2 song: _There's always pain before the child is born._

Well, there wasn't going to be any childbirth in this case; most likely, there would only be death. This thought filled Douglas with a nameless fear--irrational, too, or so he felt, as he knew that he was doing the right thing...but all the same, he couldn't help but feel that he'd forgotten something very, very important, something vital to his success. He had always loved that feeling when he'd gotten it from a movie--in a movie, you were always wondering how the hero (or heroine) would make it out, you would wonder what they forgot, and if they would remember it in time; you would wonder, if they didn't, how they would compensate for it. In a movie, all you had to do was watch...watch, and wait.

But not in real life. In real life, you had to think, and you had to think _fast._ There was no mystery to it; you had to know what you were going to do long before you did it. In real life, guessing games were fatal.

_I'll figure it out,_ Douglas said, taking long, slow breaths to try and quiet his pounding heart. _I have to...I just have to. For Henry, for Eileen. But most of all, for Heather._

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Eileen put a hand on Henry's shoulder, stopping him.

"What?" He turned around, met the sorrowful look on her face.

They were in the main exhibit area of the museum--the room lined with paintings and highlighted by that spooky interpretation of Traffic Cone Man--and Henry stood with one hand on the handle of the door, preparing to enter the lobby. His hand laxed, relinquishing its grip as he turned.

"This isn't right," she said, and Henry was unnerved to see that she was crying. "We should be back there with him!"

"We can't," Henry said, and he knew it was true.

"But _why not?_" Eileen shouted. "This is our fight, too! Walter's down there...he doesn't stand a chance, especially unarmed! We have to go back!"

Henry wished he could say something deep, something heartfelt--something like, _He'll do whatever needs to be done, _or, _He can do it, he's Detective Cartland--_but he could find no words to offer her that wouldn't enforce a flat-out lie; because the truth was, he really _didn't_ believe that the detective was going to just pull through. He _wanted_ to, because he honestly liked the guy, in spite of all the red tape they'd gone through to get him to see the truth...but he just couldn't. It was sort of like getting to the final boss in a really difficult video game and only having ten percent health and ammunition; you knew it was possible, and that your character was probably good enough to pull it off...but there was still that large seventy-two-to-one ratio of success. It was disheartening, and depressing. If Douglas came out on top, and somehow managed to stop both Harry _and_ Walter, then there might exist the potential for a happy ending--Henry imagined that, were they up here in the town itself when that happened, this misty blackness would simply cease to be and the "real" world would settle back into its rightful place. He imagined that the lower realms--such as the hideous room in which dwelled that malicious machine--would simply cease to be, no longer in possession of the support necessary to hold themselves up, the support offered by a vessel like Heather, or James...or Walter.

_God, _he hoped Douglas was going to be okay. There was no looking back, now--he knew they couldn't go back, even if they _wanted_ to, because that was the way things always ended, wasn't it? There seemed to be no logic in it at all...and yet, there was. The detective had slapped them with it just before proceeding down in to Harry's "lair."

_If you die here, Walter wins._

Simple as that. If they went back, and Douglas _did_ succeed, somehow...they would both likely die. And then Walter would win. He wouldn't even _need_ the power of Heather's treasure...because the 21 Sacraments would be complete, at long last.

Henry shivered.

"We still have a chance," Eileen whispered, her voice choked. "We can go back. We can save him!"

"No," Henry said.

"But why no--"  
"Because _we just can't,_" Henry hissed, turning his furrowed brow on her.

Eileen did not respond; she only regarded Henry with wide-eyed surprise.

"He doesn't realize it," Henry said, trying to calm himself down. "But I don't think he did it for us--that was just the rationale he offered."

"What do you mean?"  
"He did it for himself," Henry said, sighing. "That, and maybe for Heather. I don't know him well enough to say which. But he's doing it because he promised to protect her. He doesn't want our help, because he doesn't believe he'd be living up to his promise if we got involved." He turned to Eileen. "I'm almost certain of that."

"How can you know?"  
"Call it a feeling," Henry said, stealing a Walter-ism from the man he now knew to be his worst enemy. "No matter what metaphor is driving him...if we went down there to help him--even if we won, and we killed Walter and stopped Harry--Walter would still win. He came back before because he still had a chance. If we beat him here, but then we die...then he'll win in the long run."

"But--"

"But if _Douglas_ wins," Henry continued, ignoring her, "then we all win. Harry goes down, Walter goes down, and we're safe."

"This place will fall apart," Eileen said. With _him_ in it."

Henry shook his head. "We can't know that for sure."

"This is crazy," Eileen said, and Henry was alarmed by the doubt he heard in her voice. Perhaps she was coming loose?

_Or maybe,_ he thought, _just maybe..._I'm_ the one coming loose? Maybe that's why I believe it?_

No. It was better not to think such thoughts. Self-doubt had allowed him to keep his emotions in check through much of his life--true--but there were times when doubt only served to complicate matters. Self-doubt, it seemed, only mattered in situations where one had some way of influencing the outcome.

"Just roll with it," Henry said, taking another morsel from the box of Walter-isms in his head. He found that each one he used made him feel a little dirty, like wearing someone else's underwear...but at the same time, he liked the dry wit of them. The flavor of cold-hearted confidence.

It was a taste he thought he might be able to get used to.

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After about four minutes of paced downward travel, the platform on which Douglas stood suddenly, instantly became encased in a thin glass-like bubble, reminiscent of a space helmet. The detective was alarmed at first, but when he realized that this new development posed no real threat to him, he felt a little better.

Looking ahead of the platform, Douglas realized that it was rolling on two automated tracks, one just beneath each end on either side. Sort of like a roller-coaster, but much slower. He couldn't see the apparatus being used to move the platform, however--the platform itself was perfectly level, and yet the track was descending at a slight downward angle, which suggested further mechanical function somewhere out of sight. But none of that was what caught his attention; what caused his heart to leap into his throat was that the way seemed to abruptly cease down there. He could see only the wavy edges of the tracks--which seemed to have been twisted apart at some point in history--and past that, nothing.

Nothing at all.

He turned, eagerly searching for some way to turn the platform around, only now realizing that there was no visible way to operate it from inside the bubble--the pint-sized podium with the clearly-marked _Up _and _Down _buttons, it seemed, had been part not of the platform but of the station above.

If he died down here, Henry and Eileen would have no way of knowing. They might just sit up there, waiting, expecting, until either Harry or Walter showed up to do them in. He had to think fast. But just as he turned around, he realized that there was not _just_ a grand drop: far below, Douglas thought he could see strange shapes squiggling just at the very edge of his line of sight. He wasn't quite close enough to tell what they were from here, but as the cart drew nearer to the edge of the tracks, the meaning of the shapes became clear: rain droplets, pattering down onto water.

There was _water_ down there.

Just as the realization dawned on him, he heard an obnoxious _skreeek!_ that stopped his heart with surprise for just one second: the platform had reached the end of the tracks. In the field that spanned across his mind he could see the suspension system on the bottom of the platform giving way, preparing to tumble it and its lone passenger down into the liquid below.

_Skreeek!...thunk._

There it went.

He barely had time to mumble a scrambled version of _Oh, hell,_ before the platform was completely submerged. If not for the glass shielding, Douglas would certainly have drowned right here, all these thousands of feet beneath one of the worst possible places to die, for there was no visible safe-haven in the vicinity...only water, God knew how deep.

Douglas closed his eyes and swallowed, preparing for the worst...and before he knew it, he was in the aquatic realm, and there were _sounds_. He didn't want to look--all of the things he'd seen in Silent Hill above-water were bad enough, and when squared with the kinds of strange things seen under the ocean in the _normal_ world, he didn't even want to _think_ about what kinds of things might exist under here, what kind of things that could make those weird sounds--but somehow, he felt compelled. He knew that what he might see would probably haunt him for long years after...but at the same time, he was possessed of an irresistable, almost _scientific_ interest, driven by the thought that he would probably be the only living human to ever see such things--a thought both horrifying and terribly fascinating.

But all of those fears were driven away when he opened his eyes...and saw nothing. Nothing at all. Just a great, piercing blackness in all directions. Turning behind him, he could see a towering mechanical structure--not too unlike a radio tower--and the shaft leading into it, the shaft from which he had just fallen...but all around it, and in every other direction, there was only emptiness.

But those _sounds..._they were like some otherworldly fusion of sucking, blowing, and paced breathing, all at once. Difficult just to hear, much less identify--not that he had any trouble realizing that he had never heard anything like it before.

He could only fight the urge to look away from the eternal nothingness into which he was sinking...and continue to sink.

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"But what if he _can't?_"

Henry jerked, startled out of his daze, and turned back to Eileen.

She was leaning on the edge of the display case, but her arms were fidgeting by her sides, ready to take action. "What if he can't stop Harry? Or what if Walter gets him?"

Henry only shrugged. He hated how apathetic the gesture seemed once he'd performed it.

"Don't act like you don't care," Eileen spat. "I may not have known you for very long, Henry, but I certainly know you better than that. You're not heartless." Then, after a brief hesitation: "And if you really are, then maybe sleeping with you was a mistake." She regretted the words before they even left her mouth.

"What do you want to do?" Henry said without hesitation, startling Eileen. She opened her mouth, an apology at the ready, but what escaped her instead was a sound more akin to a mixture of confusion and satisfaction, something that managed to sound strangely sensuous in spite of its context.

"What do you want to do?" Henry repeated, flashing her a distracted expression.

"What are you thinking?" Eileen said, hopeful.

"You first," he said.

"I want..." she began, and trailed off.

"You don't know, I'll bet," Henry said. He then placed a hand on her shoulder.

After a long hesitation, Eileen turned her head away. "Yeah...I guess...but it's still not good. Not good at all."

"I know," Henry said. "But remember, we don't know the rules to this place. We don't know _what _will happen to him, if he succeeds. Remember that place below Room 302?"

"Yes," Eileen conceded. "But that place...it had an analogue in the 'real' world. That place we saw down there...that couldn't have been a real place, not anywhere."  
"We can't say that for sure," Henry said. "There could be a whole establishment beneath the Historical Society, for all we know. Maybe a cellar or a vault, or something."

Eileen shuffled her feet. "I just don't believe that. I mean, yeah, I _want _to, but...it's like my mind won't let me." She paused, then shook her head. "This is just too much...I want it to be over, already."

Henry sighed, half-nodding.

_Douglas...wherever you are..._

He wished like hell that he could add something hopeful to that statement...but he was dismayed to find that he could think of nothing. Even such simple catechisms as "good luck" seemed miles away.

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An indeterminable amount of time later, Douglas finally found the strength to peel his eyes from the abyss which yawned away from him in all directions and point them towards the floor. It wasn't so much that he was _scared_ of what he was seeing; no, it was more because of that feeling of _grandiosity,_ that sensation of being dwarfed by the environment itself. It was a feeling he remembered from his first and only visit to the Grand Canyon in Arizona as a child all those years ago, the feeling that he was seeing only a small fragment of something much larger, the feeling that this place had been evolving, growing, carving itself into existence for hundreds of thousands of years before this moment, and would continue to do so for as many (if not more) years after. It was the feeling of vulnerability, as if the place threatened to swallow him whole should he stare into its maw long enough.

Not to the detective's surprise, the floor of the elevator car still looked like it had only moments before, and was still made of the same sturdy metal.

_What is this?_ he asked nobody, trying to resist the ever-present urge to succumb to the gravity of the environment around him; it was so _huge!_ It just seemed to go on, and on, and on...and just when you thought it was going to stop, it _went._

Douglas chuckled, recalling this little bit of comedy from some old TV show--which, for some strange reason, reminded him of the Energizer Bunny. He couldn't remember from which show that had been, just that it had been cancelled several years ago, and that he missed it dearly.

This thought conjured images of other things he missed dearly.

"Oh, no," he whispered, but the memories were already coming back.

_You never said it would be like this._

_I'm sorry, but--_

_You're always working--you're never at home--your son barely knows you, and--_

_You knew it was going to be like this when you married me--_

_I didn't know that you--_

_--I made that perfectly clear--_

_--were going to marry your job instead of your wife, how--_

_--Why don't you just leave, then, if it's such a problem?_

_I'm...hon, I'm sorry--_

_No, don't be sorry. Maybe...maybe you're right._

Douglas continued to stare down at the steel floor, comforting himself with the idea that he wasn't hanging his head in shame, that he was just trying to avoid looking into that grand abyss which threatened to overwhelm his sanity, even when confronted with the knowledge that an even bigger abyss threatened to do just that--if not worse--right here underneath his skull.

"This isn't right," he said out loud. "This has to be...it has to be this place. It's messing with my head." He'd hoped that speaking his thoughts aloud would give them more power than they had as inarticulate matter between his ears, but his hopes were quickly dashed.

_It's not this place at all,_ a voice spoke from the center of his brain. _Sure, maybe this place has helped a little here and there--after all, part of its nature is to ruin the complex designs of the human mind, both those we humans can comprehend and those we can't--but this battle has been going on inside you for years._

"Yeah," Douglas mumbled. "Well, my mind has a hell of a sense of timing."

_If it's not now, it's later,_ the voice spoke up.

"I choose later."

To this, his conscience had nothing to say. And he knew he would pay the price for that later--for there was always a price to be paid when one squelched one's innermost desires, whether one knew he or she wanted them or not.

At long last, Douglas brought his head and his flashlight up, having forgotten all about the endless terrain around him...and what he saw caused his heart to skip a beat, and his mind to cease its hassling.

And then...there was a splash.

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"What if only _one_ of us went back?"

"What?" Henry said, disbelieving.

"If only one of us went back to help him," Eileen said, "then Walter wouldn't be able to win. He'd only get one of us, if even that."

"Eileen..."

"I mean it," she said. "I could go back and--"

"Eileen, no," Henry said. "We can't risk our lives--"

"But it's not just--"

"It is," Henry cut her off, feeling unusually aggressive. "What you're suggesting is to improve his chances of success by sacrificing one of us. Except you don't know if it will improve his chances at all. You're gambling on a gamble."

Eileen hesitated...and gave in, flustered. She threw her arms up in the air. "I don't know, I just hate this lazy feeling. I feel like we should be doing something."

"Well, that's..." Henry began...and stopped.

"What?" Eileen asked.

_Maybe,_ he thought to himself, _maybe it's because we _should_ be doing something. Not about Douglas or Walter or Harry or Heather...but..._

"Henry," Eileen said in a stern voice, as if reprimanding a stubborn child, "come on, talk to me!"

"It's..." he whispered, and glanced around the room. "It's nothing."

Eileen watched him with worry in her eyes.

"I'm sorry I snapped" Henry said.

Eileen figured she should have felt hopeful, but for reasons she couldn't identify, she wasn't.

Meanwhile, Henry felt a chill run down his spine; things were so close as they were...and yet he felt, pulsing beneath all of this like a malignant tumor on a vital organ, something else, something different...as if this was not the end of the game but the _beginning._

To put it as bluntly as his intuition insisted on being at the moment, something wasn't right.

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Douglas was a bit late in realizing that something was happening, although he _had_ registered a sudden shift in the environment. Visually, everything appeared to be the same...but his other senses screamed to him that something was wrong, or at least that something had changed. For one, the sound of rushing water had been replaced by that of air whizzing by, and he no longer felt the lightweight gravity afforded by aquatic suspension.

He was in free-fall, then. But...how? How could he be in free-fall, this far underwater?

Flashing his light all around in a panic, he saw that the beam was no longer refracted as it had been in the water up above. Further proof--should it be necessary--that he was falling, not floating.

Before he could further analyze the situation, he heard another loud _plunk!,_ and realized that he had hit another body of water. He saw bubbles accumulate briefly along the outer rim of the platform's glass cover, and then he saw the water level down to the base.

He was...floating?

"That's it," Douglas said. "I want out of here. This is just--"  
As if responding to his command, the glass cover retracted down into the platform, vanishing from sight.

Douglas jerked his head downward, seized with alarm; for just a moment, he expected to be assaulted by a flood of ebony liquid, carried away into the depths of this strange place...but seconds later, when the effect wore off, he realized that the platform was steadily coasting on the surface of the water.

And on top of that, there appeared to be a _dock_ of some sort floating just before him in the water. Like the elevator platform, it didn't seem to be attached to anything, just floating in place on the eerily calm waters.

Flashing his light around, Douglas realized that he was not in the middle of an ocean, or a lake, or anything of the sort; he was floating on a pond (or similar tiny body of water) in the middle of a tall, pitch-black room. As with the previous areas, the only light came from Douglas' pocket MagLite.

He stepped out onto the dock, bracing himself in the event that it should sink under his weight, and was relieved to feel several inches of thick, sturdy wood beneath the soles of his shoes. The thing was floating just above water-level, its supports buried beneath the black fluid, and Douglas was glad when he reached the other end and stepped onto solid--albeit metallic--ground.

It was then, and only then, that he thought to flash his light directly above...and that was when he saw the ceiling, which was not really a ceiling at all but a body of water.

About twenty feet up into the air, the water simply ceased to be, forming a shifting, almost crystalline ceiling that reflected his light back at him. The water's surface shifted, as a normal body of water might; other than the fact that it was upside down and effectively violating basic laws of physics, it was behaving like a perfectly normal body of water.

"That's...odd," Douglas remarked, and turned the flashlight away...though he continued to watch the "ceiling" for a moment longer, as if expecting it to come crashing down on him at any moment.

That thought was enough to get him moving again.

The room was tall but quite narrow, and cylindrical in shape. Were it any higher--and had it only an ascending spiral staircase--Douglas might have thought it to be a lighthouse, but after a quick analysis he deduced that it must be some sort of plant. In the center of the room was the platform on which he'd entered; spanning outward from that was the body of water over which he'd just crossed, and the dock he'd used to do so. Past that point, metal grates proceeded across the floor all the way to the metallic walls of the room, which rose upward in segmented metal panels (strangely enough, Douglas noticed, there didn't seem to be anything holding the plates together).

On either side of the room, one behind Douglas and one across from him, was a series of five steps, each leading to a door. On the door across from him, Douglas could barely read the words _Control Room_ written in black ink on a torn rectangular segment of notebook paper taped to the door's top panel.

Turning, Douglas read _Watch Station Access_ on a piece of paper similarly attached to the door on this side of the room.

"Which way should I go?" Douglas asked in a sly voice, feeling eerily giddy; he didn't know why he should feel that way all of a sudden, though he had a feeling this place was somehow responsible--the line he'd spoken had suddenly occurred to him from an early stage of a computer game he'd once tried (without success) to complete, a game called _The 7th Guest._ He couldn't remember what part of the game from which the line had originated, just that it reminded him of spiders.

_Try the Control Room first,_ his inner voice spoke up.

He nodded. "Sure, why not?" he said dryly, the moment of giddiness past, and started towards the door so marked.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What do you think happened to her?"

Henry stirred, snapped out of the sleeping sense of discomfort by which he had been absorbed, though his eyes remained fixated on the museum's front entrance--rather, on the darkness visible beyond the twin glass panels. "Huh?"

"Heather," Eileen specified. "What do you think happened to her when...when Harry...when he did whatever he did?"

"Don't think about it too much," Henry warned. "Whatever it was, it's over now, for her and for us."

"But that's just it," Eileen said, her voice rising in pitch ever-so-slightly--Henry found himself wondering if she was as stable on the inside as she was letting on. He certainly hoped so. "What if it's not? What if she's like Joseph and the others--"

"She's not," Henry said.

"How do you know?" Eileen retorted.

"I don't," Henry said drearily. "It's a feeling, that's all."

"A feeling?"

"Yes," Henry repeated calmly, swallowing the mixture of borderline-frustration and confusion bubbling within him which seemed intent on bursting forth. "Joseph was gone, no question about it. We don't know if Heather's dead."

"But she--"

"You saw it," Henry said. "That thing, Harry. The way it sort of...well, _took_ her in. It wasn't like it was trying to _eat_ her alive, or anything...more like it was _becoming_ her. Or she was becoming it."

"Or _part_ of it," Eileen added, a chill racing down her spine. "So you think...maybe it's _not_ over?"

But to that, Henry would not give a concrete answer. Either way, only dismal truth lay in wait.

"Henry?" Eileen prodded, taking his shoulder from behind. "Henry, don't do that."

"If she is dead," he said, turning to face her, reluctant to speak his mind but knowing that she would spot a lie a mile away, "then she'll probably stay here."

"Stay...here?" Eileen asked, her words drawn out, as if spoken in the haze of a dream...and then her eyes widened.

"In Silent Hill," Henry finished. "She'll stay here, just like those people in that place...the Hurting Ground, she called it. She'll be a part of this until God knows when. Maybe forever, unless Douglas saves her."

"But that's only if she's right," Eileen said. "She thought she was right about the ritual, too, and look what happened?"

"Exactly," Henry said, met with a perplexed stare from Eileen. "We should try our best to avoid making the same mistake--assuming the best."

"But..." Eileen started, but all of the words she'd had lined up on the tip of her tongue now slid back down her throat, devoid of fire. _God,_ how she hated him when he was right! She wanted badly for him to say something, _anything,_ that she could use to convince him to go back for Douglas--she knew the detective stood little chance of success, and she was sure Henry knew, as well. The trouble was, _Henry_ wasn't willing to admit that.

Either that, or he really _did_ have blind faith in the detective...a possibility that unnerved Eileen.

"But," Henry said, the inflection of his voice rising slightly--something that actually resonated with a part of Eileen that was either hope or its closest cousin--"If she's alive, Douglas might be able to save her."

"That's just what I've been saying, though," Eileen said, falling back into irritability. "If Douglas saves her, how will he get her out of there? What good will it do? They'll both die!"

Henry did not respond.

"Henry," she said, shaking him. "Tell me you aren't still--"

"There has to be a way," Henry mumbled.

"What?"

"There _has_ to be a way," he repeated. "There has to be a way to do this without..."

"I don't understand..."

"Without putting everything at risk," Henry said. "Without going back there. There's got to be a way."

Eileen watched him with confusion and--she was ashamed to admit--the faintest sheen of hope. She didn't want to believe in him right now--to do so was to deny the red-hot emotion boiling just beneath her surface, the intution that screamed against everything Henry was saying--but her desire to do so was so powerful that she thought she might just learn to, even without good reason. Call it a habit.

_No,_ she thought, de-railing that train of thought before it could travel any farther. _No, no more of this. No more taking orders._

"Henry," she said, clenching her teeth together, trying to psyche herself up for the resistance she knew to be inevitable.

No answer. He had his back turned on her--and what timing!

"Henry, I'm going back," she said, and was appalled at the tremble she detected in her own voice.

"Wait," Henry said--apparently, he hadn't heard her--and then, quite suddenly, he turned around and shouted, "_No!_"

"Yes," she said. "You can stay here if you want. You said that Walter wins if he gets both of us? Well, if only I go, then he won't have both of us. Even if I lose--"

"No way," Henry said, and took her by the wrist. "You can't go back."

"_Don't_ tell me what to do," she said, and shook her hand free.

Henry backed away from her, stunned. He'd never seen her this vicious before.

"Look," Eileen said, pausing for a deep breath--the next words she chose were probably going to be the most important ones of her life, so she could use every second to think them over that she could get--"All this time that we've been together, I've been putting all of my weight on you. And while I appreciate the way you've handled it, I don't think it's fair. Of me to you, or of you to me. It's not fair of me to expect you to take care of me like this--"  
"Eileen--"

"No, let me finish," she said. Then, closing her eyes: "I realize I've also made a mistake in that I've made you _expect_ that behavior of me. You _expect _me to just cower under you and allow you to 'protect' me, because you _are_ probably stronger and smarter than me...you _expect_ me to trust you, and it's probably really easy for you that way, because then you can think of me as an extention of yourself--you can think for yourself, and just apply whatever you feel to me, as well--but I'm going to have to stop you this time."

"Eileen, you don't know what you're saying," Henry said. "It's this--"

"I can't just stand by and let Douglas kill himself trying to save her," Eileen said, ignoring him...except, Henry realized, she wasn't ignoring him at all. She was hearing everything he was saying. She was _fighting_ him, and it was tearing her apart from the inside. A crystal-clear tear slid down one of her perfect cheeks, and Henry felt his stomach turn, felt the strength run out of his legs at the sight of it.

"Please," Henry said, "just think about it for a minute."

"There's nothing to think about," she said, turning from him...and then she was running.

"Eileen, _wait!_"

She went through the door, and though he was only two or three steps behind her at first, by the time he'd entered the office to which the doorway of light had taken her earlier, she had disappeared into the darkness beyond the broken wall.

"_Eileen!_" Henry shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth, pushing himself to move even faster. _"Come back!_"

Though the response was simple--just three words--they were enough to freeze Henry all the way to the core: "Wish me luck."

"No way," Henry muttered under his breath. "This isn't..."

His side was cramping up already. Damn...and just a day or two ago, it had seemed like he was in perfect shape! What was happening to him? It was almost as if somebody didn't _want_ him catching up to her, as if somebody _wanted_ her to venture down into the deepest realm of Harry's strange other dimension.

Thoughts of higher powers struck a familiar chord in him, and he was reminded of Eileen's "Visitor." He took a brief moment to wonder if that "Visitor" was responsible for this current outburst.

_Eileen would be so disappointed in you,_ a voice spoke to him from far beneath his conscious mind. _If you'd said that to her face after that speech she gave you...that would be like ignoring everything she had to say and blaming it on PMS, or something._

He wondered if that was a bit of Walter taking seed in him; he doubted it, but decided that it would probably be wise to refrain from using any more Walter-isms, just in case.

As much as he hated to admit it, it seemed that all bets were officially off with respect to safety measures; nevermind that Walter's twisted ritual would be complete if Eileen and Henry died down here. It seemed that Eileen was intent on throwing herself in harm's way for Douglas' (and perhaps Heather's) sake...and he would have to dedicate the rest of his time here to convincing her to look past her emotions and see the truth--if she quit now, then the game was over, and she and Henry would win.

This time, the voice that spoke to him from beneath his consciousness sounded suspiciously like Eileen's: _But is it worth it? Are you really willing to sacrifice the lives of Douglas and Heather, just for a _chance_ to stop Walter from reaching what he believes to be God? Would you really relinquish two people to eternal damnation, just to be sure? Or will you take the chance, gamble on everything, to save them all?_

That was just the bitch of it--he _didn't know._

_You've had your whole life to think this one over, _the voice insisted._ The answer is who you are. Now it's time to decide._

"I don't know," Henry said.

But the voice would not leave him alone: _Decide anyway._

So he did.

END OF CHAPTER 34


	35. Finale Part 1 The Misery Mire

**Chapter 35**

**Finale Part 1: The Misery Mire**

_"Let me take you to the hurting ground  
Where all good men are trampled down_

_Just to settle a bet that could not be won_

_Between a prideful father and his son."_

"Sorrow," _Bad Religion_

_(The Process of Belief)_

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The lighting inside the "control room" was no improvement over the previous areas, nor was the smell. The latter was familiar to Douglas, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. Almost a smell of decay...at first Douglas wondered if it might be a corpse, but that conclusion was soon tossed out (it wasn't quite as powerful as the smell of a dead body, even in early stages of decomposition). No, it was more like...rotten food of some kind, perhaps vegetables. It had a natural-but-not-quite-natural flair to it, as if something pleasant and natural had been tainted by artificial means (for some reason, hot dogs came to mind).

The room wasn't very large--it extended forward about fifteen feet in a perfect square shape, capped off at the far end by a wide podium. Stacked on top of the podium was an upright four-by-four grid of monitors. Two in the far right column appeared to be operational--both projected differing perspectives of what appeared to be a meat locker or freezer--but the rest were riddled with static, save for a couple in the left column (exactly parallel to the ones in the right column, incidentally) that showed only blackness. For just a moment, it crossed Douglas' mind that the darkened monitors might _not_ be broken--they might simply be broadcasting from somewhere out in that black ocean--but he quickly pushed the idea aside. Now was not the time for aimless speculation; Heather was in danger--possibly immortally so--and he had a sinking feeling that was growing with the passing of each second. It was like a far less pleasant version of the sensation he'd gotten on the first day of his first job, five or ten minutes left before clock-out time; as it had then, time now seemed to be both racing and crawling.

_Maybe that's what's happening,_ he pondered. _Time is pretty funny in this place. Already I feel like I've been here a month, maybe longer._

But that probably had less to do with how "funny" time was than it did with all that had happened in the past few hours. Especially with what had happened to John.

Shaking his head, Douglas approached the podium. The filthy linoleum floor tiles echoed his footsteps, filling him with an urgent paranoia, as if he were being followed. Even though he felt foolish doing so, he shot a cursory glance over his shoulder before stopping at the podium.

The podium was sparsely decorated; four brown-colored buttons, each of which appeared as though they might have once been backlit, marked the respective corners of the panel, and a much larger button--a square red thing emblazened with a tiny, unfamiliar golden crest--held center, surrounded by a frame of tiny blue buttons. There were white labels beneath each button (save for the blue ones) on the podium, but the words printed on them were illegible to Douglas--they appeared to be in some cryptic foreign language.

_Wait..._

He leaned closer, examining the symbols printed beneath the red button. He didn't recognize any of them, but all the same...they looked familiar. He thought he might have seen them before.

But _where?_

It was impossible to tell at the moment...but all the same, he felt that to forego this examination might be risky. He felt like he was playing one of those puzzle-games, where none of the puzzles were logical so you had to try everything in every room, even the ideas that made no sense. With this in mind, he produced the notepad and pen from his coat pocket and began to etch a crude diagram of the panel before him. He labeled the buttons, what color they were, and the labels beneath each.

Taking a closer look at the monitors, Douglas realized that they, too, had labels beneath them. After comparing them to the labels on the control panel, he determined that they were not associated with the buttons on the panel in any visible way.

Right there, from the corner of his eye, something moved.

He pivoted to the right, setting his hand within reach of the armament in his shoulder-holster.

Nothing was there.

"Bull," Douglas muttered. "I saw it."

There it was again. Not from the corner...from the monitor. The far right one on the top row. Douglas felt panicked anticipation well up in his chest.

_Is someone in there?_

Not quite. And the other question...were the monitors feeding live, like security cameras, or were they broadcasting pre-recorded material? The former seemed more likely, but he supposed the latter was possible, as well. All the same, he--

There it was again. Only for a second, and it was gone again.

This time, Douglas got a good look at it--well, as good a look as could be gotten in the shoddy lighting and low quality of the monitor's view. It looked to be about the size of a grown man, wearing a short black coat and tattered pants. He couldn't tell if the hair was short and spiky--or if the shoes were shoddy white tennys--just by looking at them, but he didn't need to.

_But where is he?_

His mind echoed, _Watch Station Access._

He turned back towards the door, entering into what was almost a jog...and recoiled with an adrenaline-filled surge of phobia just a few feet in front of the door through which he'd come. It was now closed, but that was to be expected; he'd heard it drift ever-so-slowly closed on its ancient hinges when he'd come in. No, what really surprised him was the newcomer taking refuge before him, sprawled across the metal door like a nightmarish blanket.

It was the largest, furriest piebald spider he had ever seen in his life. Its white-speckled body alone covered almost the entire door, and its legs sprawled out a few inches past it on all sides. From the tip of its abdomen ran a fine silk thread, visible only in the direct beam of Douglas' flashlight, that ran straight up into what appeared to be a venting duct.

"Has this been here...?" he began.

_The whole time?_ his mind finished. He couldn't help but feel shaken by the possibility that this thing had been sitting on the back of the door when he'd opened it and had remained there, waiting, watching, as he reviewed the podium and its monitors. Or perhaps the spider had sensed his presence when he'd come in and lowered itself through that venting duct?

But its sudden visibility (and stunning size) was not the only unusual quality of the spider; it was missing a leg. One sprouted from its head on either side, another from each side of the thorax...but while two more legs protruded from the left side of the abdomen, only one took root on the right. There was only a malformed stump where the eighth leg should have gone.

As soon as he felt the edge of the control panel jab into his backside, Douglas realized that the moment had gotten the best of him; he was still backing ever-so-slowly away from the thing on the door. He stopped, pressed as far away from it as he could be.

"What are you?" Douglas asked, blindly attempting to assert power over the situation--a classic tactic from his policework days. Amateur, but classic nonetheless.

The spider did not respond. Did not even move, in fact.

_Is it even alive?_ he wondered, managing enough power over his own body to take a meager step towards the intruder (or perhaps that was incorrect--perhaps it was _he _who was the intruder?).

"I don't want to know," Douglas mumbled out loud. "But I guess there's only one way to find out." And with that, he started--very slowly, albeit--towards the spider.

_You're crazy,_ he thought to himself. _What if it's alive? What will you do then?_

Closer now. Just a few feet away.

Only now did Douglas notice how hot it felt in here. Sweat was creeping down the nape of his neck, and all of a sudden his coat felt extremely heavy on him. He felt it slide against the nape of his neck like an unwelcome second skin.

Three feet away. Two feet.

Nothing; it still wasn't moving.

_If I can just reach the doorknob..._

Before he could react, the thing on the door burst into life, issuing forth a loud, elongated hiss that was almost a howl. It began to thrash wildly in place, disturbed from sleep. Douglas cried out violently and fell backward onto his ass; the immediate pain convinced him that he had probably bruised his tailbone.

"_Damn it!_" he exclaimed, scooting backwards, trying to distance himself from the thrashing entity. He could only watch, mystified, as the spider's fit would carry it up into the air ever-so-slightly, only to send it crashing back against the door hard enough to rattle the frame time and again. He was disgusted to notice the greenish-yellow foam gathering between its unsightly mandibles--probably either acid or some particularly potent poison--and had time to wonder if the spider was going to somehow spray him with that stuff before its tantrum abruptly ceased, and it resumed stasis against the door.

A moment passed, and Douglas was able to regain his footing. As he did, though, he felt his heart jump into his throat when a heavy, layered baritone sound issued from somewhere in the room. He glanced all around, expecting to see something worse...and saw nothing.

That was when he realized _it_ had come from the spider, as well.

_It...growled at me?_

The spider's multitude of eyes were now open, all staring at him with apparent malicious intent. And yet it held still, waiting not to leap forth and attack but, apparently, for Douglas to try to pass through its domain once again. Douglas remembered that strategy from a video he'd watched in high-school about spiders; they didn't seem that bad when they were small and easily dispatched with the heel of one's boot, but the way those close-up camera shots had presented those things had made them seem malevolent, somehow...menacing, evil creatures. The camera had well served the purpose of putting the viewer into the shoes of the insect being fed upon, and seeing a feeding spider's face close-up--in the act of murdering something small and helpless--had put the world of arachnids in a whole new terrifying light for Douglas, a light that shone on to this day.

_Enough of this,_ Douglas said, wishing his actual feelings reflected the conscious thoughts in his head. _Just shoot it, and let's be done. I don't have time to wait around here being afraid of a giant stupid bug._

Douglas reached into his coat, unholstering his revolver, and locked eyes with the offending creature. He hesitated for a moment; for any potential onlookers, that moment might have seemed much longer than it was, for it would have seemed that Douglas was searching for the proper one-liner to execute before doing the same to the spider. However, the tension of that temporary faux-drama was abruptly torn away by the crash of the revolver's hammer--or rather, by the explosion caused thereof.

The spider's abdomen burst on one side, dropping the gimp leg and several of the internal organs beneath it. A fluid which seemed to be white, red and green all at once issued from the wound, provoking another thrashing fit; the spider threw itself at the door multiple times, seeming to try to escape through it, and then, eyeing Douglas with an emotional fury that was so _human_ it was disturbing, the thing retracted onto the thread extending from the remainder of its abdomen and began a slow, staggering effort back up into the duct through which it had presumably come in the first place. Its pained, furious screams echoed for some time within the narrow walls of the duct, seeming to hypnotize Douglas with their ferocity.

_Wake up! Wake up and _move,_ before it comes back!_

He smacked himself in the forehead with his empty hand, and in an adrenaline-pumped fugue he seized the handle on the door and flung it open, fleeing back into the tower-like well from which he had come.

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The ground was wet, and it smelled awful...but none of that had Walter's attention at the moment. His right hand was wrapped across his body, grappling with the searing pain from the wound in his waist.

_But there shouldn't _be _any pain!_ he insisted. _I shouldn't be able to get _hurt_ at all, much less feel pain!_

But somehow, he could. Which could only mean one of two things: Either it hadn't worked after all, or he had missed something.

_I haven't missed a thing,_ his mind snapped.

"Well," he mumbled out loud, pausing to spit out the bead of sweat that had crept onto his upper lip from his brow, "it's either that, or..."

_Either I'm completely incompetent--which, while a pain, can be fixed--or it's impossible altogether. Which _can't_ be. It just can't be._

"Just...shut up," he groaned. "Just--" But before he'd gotten as much out of his mouth, an unseen shockwave paralyzed him from the base of his spine.

_AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGH!_

Walter recoiled, almost fell over, caught his balance at the last second in spite of the pain which lit up the left side of his body. That noise...that could only be...

"Not him," he begged--though, to him, it sounded more like a whine. "Not him, not here...not him, too...dammit!" Things were already going badly; what with the one who was already down here, probably hunting him as these very thoughts ran through his head...and on top of that, the apparent fact that the aglaophotis had gotten to him--

_Wait...that's _it! _Of _course,_ it's the _aglaophotis! _Has to be!_

The _aglaophotis_ must've gotten to him! He'd created it with the intent of using it to destroy the kid's Center, but he'd never even thought of how it might affect himself. And why should he have? Who would have known that the thing would have turned around and used (literally) the _same_ ammunition back at him?

He laughed out loud--a bad move, he knew, for the Wizard would surely find him if he drew attention to himself in this condition, but the following surge of joy was too much to contain--and removed his hand from his injured side. "Maybe things _will_ work out," he said, straining against the throbbing in his side. "Maybe they will...just _yet_."

Then, turning his head back towards the way he'd come, he shouted. "Come on, Receiver! Detective! Mother! Happy hours are...almost..._over!_"

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In the darkness, something woke up.

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He knew that he shouldn't have relied on any information found in this place to set up his expectations, but Douglas realized that he'd done no less in being mislead by the term, "Watch Station Access." In his mind the phrase had conjured images of an aerial platform, or perhaps a runway. Anything but..._this._

It was a decrepit green room, made of bricks from floor to ceiling. A pungent aroma sailed out from the passage before him--a single narrow corridor, proceeding onward into the bowels of this strange place. The darkness took over in there, and Douglas actually felt his heart speed up a little; he wasn't claustrophobic, but the thought of going on through that dark and cramped space still managed to set his blood afire.

If that weren't enough already, the beam of his flashlight took that moment to settle on the phrase--apparently spray-painted onto the wall just to the left of the passage, along with a guiding arrow pointing towards the passage itself, by someone possessed either of limited motor skills or panic-driven insanity--"A Wizard Lives Here."

_A wizard?_ Douglas mused. _What the hell kind of kiddie thing is this?_

There was the part of him that held to that...but then there was that deeper part, that almost-instinct. It sprung to life once again in a flurry of rebuttal: _Maybe it's the kiddie stuff you should be most afraid of. This is seeming more and more like one of those murder-mystery novels where the killer is obsessed with some childish folktale._

Casting the thought away--but not forgetting it--he adjusted his grip on the flashlight, took a deep breath, and wriggled into the corridor.

_Heather...just a little longer. It can't be too much farther._

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He'd found a way. A difficult way, but a way nonetheless.

As he was now, though...it would be nearly impossible to perform the correct operations without drawing attention to himself. And the Wizard was coming--he could feel its breath on the air. It knew this place as well as he did, if not better, and it would surely find him if he stopped long enough to save himself.

_But the bullet won't wait long,_ Walter thought, staggering, holding tight to the wall on his left side with one hand. _It's working fast. If only there were a way to..._

Wait...maybe there _was._ If he could somehow...

"Yeah," he mumbled, spitting a bead of sweat off of his bottom lip. "Maybe...but _how?_"

_God provides, _he answered in his head. _Just wait. Wait and watch, like you always do. Things will work themselves out._

"But I don't have _time_ to wait," he moaned.

To this he could think of no response, nothing to reassure himself of the original plan. He guessed that was it, then--he would just have to wing it from here on out. He hated to admit it, but for the next little while, he'd be riding on a prayer as much as the ones pursuing him. It was just a good thing that the detective didn't know the other two were coming--if he did, he might be willing to do something a little more drastic in their interest, confronted with the knowledge that he was not Heather's one-and-only chance anymore.

_Hell, under_ _any other circumstance, I'd be glad to watch him die for her...I wish I didn't need him so badly._

"Pay attention," he half-whispered, gently patting one side of his face. "There's painful work to do."

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He hadn't gone more than a few feet into the corridor before its cry froze him in his boots: _SKREEEEEE!_

Douglas' heart rate tripled for a second--he could feel it pattering against his chest, so anxious to leave this place that it might just rip through his chest and flee to safety on its own--and his hand fell to the butt of his gun, solely out of reflex.

_It's here?_

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Walter wished like hell that he'd gotten his hands on a tourniquet and a scalpel before heading into town. Of course, he hadn't known his real reason for being here--his original plan had not allowed for a situation like this. But even though he felt he'd made every reasonable decision in getting here, he still felt inadequate; perhaps that resulted from the obssesive nature by which he idolized his storybook heroes, in all their superhuman perfection. Other people might have seen that as a weakness, but in it Walter only saw strength; it was that insatiable desire to be perfect, to always make every right decision in every possible case, that had driven him to be as successful as he was.

But...was he really successful? Hell, he didn't even know what he did for a living--or even if he did anything at all. The "knowledge" that he had a hundred thousand dollars stored away in multiple bank accounts across the state could simply be another one of his tricks, of the memory-jogging variety. Perhaps that memory had been placed there simply to cause uncertainty, to bring the contradiction of what he thought he knew in his heart to light?

"Forget the philosophical crap," Walter sputtered. "I've got to get these bullets out of my gut before I drop." He hesitated, keeled over...and fell to his knees, nearly bashing his head against the wall before him.

_There's no time,_ he thought. _I have to do it now, or else...or else it'll be too late._

"Great," he mumbled. "Now I'm _thinking_ in staggers."

Shaking his head, grimacing against the migraine which chose that moment to reveal itself with startling ferocity, he fumbled with his coat, allowing it to slide over his shoulders and onto the ground behind him. He started to slide his shirt over his head, but was unnerved by what he saw. He shouldn't have been startled by the bloody spatters stretching across his chest from his left hip to his right shoulder--he was well aware that the aglaophotis had weakened the essence of his power, perhaps even reversed it altogether--but he found that he was, anyway; he had to fight to conceal a horrified gasp.

_What the hell is happening?_ he thought.

"Nothing," he whispered dryly, breathless. "Nothing. Everything's...gonna be fine. Just...get this stuff out of you, and everything...will be back to normal."

_But how?_

"Damn," he hissed, staring at the three gaping bullet wounds--one just above his left hip, one dead in the center of his chest--surely no more than a millimeter or two from his heart--and one just below his right shoulder.

The fuckin' thing had shot him like a target in a carnival game; it seemed almost as if it had _known _its shots wouldn't kill him right away, and so it had decided to play with him a little bit--it wasn't a coincidence that the three shots lined up perfectly, of that Walter was sure.

"Oh, he'll get what's coming," Walter said and, sharply narrowing one eye in anticipation, applied a small amount of pressure on the flesh just beneath the wound near his shoulder. The pain was immediate and all-encompassing, and this time Walter couldn't catch the cry of agony his reflexes threw at him.

_Damn it,_ he cursed in his mind. _You want that thing to find you, or what?_

"It's now or never," he managed to croak, his face already drenched in sweat. "Alright...here goes."

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The path eventually widened up enough for Douglas' body to catch up with his racing mind; he couldn't quite run yet, but his sidle had reached a pace befitting of a wild game in the heat of a life-or-death race. His gun, clutched tightly in his right hand, occasionally barked its discontent as it scraped against the stone wall--each collision was followed by a short flair of discomfort as Douglas' knuckle raked against the wall, taking a small amount of skin with it (though not enough to make it bleed, thankfully--who knew _what_ kind of infection he might carry with him if and when he finally left this place).

Up ahead, the path opened out a little to either side, finally allowing Douglas enough room to enter a steady jog. He made sure to mainain a tight embrace on the revolver--that spider was sure to show up sooner or later. Although its cries had tapered off, one of them had been enough for Douglas to feel its rage, its hate, its utter discontent for Douglas as a living thing. It wanted to hurt him...not just to kill him but to _break_ him, to _tear _him, to _destroy_ him. It wanted him to regret ever setting foot in its domain. He didn't know how he could know that--or how the thing could _feel_ that, really--but he knew. That cry of outrage, that horrible screech of desolation, had been enough to drive the point home.

Now, he could only hope that he had enough time to drive the _bullet_ home, if and when that furry bastard reared its nightmarish head once more. It wouldn't be hard to kill, he felt certain--the shot to its leg seemed to have pissed it off quite a bit--but that wouldn't matter if he walked into its trap.

And on top of that, there was _Walter_ to worry about. And, insofar as the warning had any substance, this so-called "Wizard."

_Maybe Walter _is_ the Wizard?_ he wondered. _He's got all kinds of crazy, impossible tricks up his sleeve. I figure any guy who can tackle dying twice is capable of almost anything...people build religions around guys like him._

As was usually the case in Silent Hill--at least, in Douglas' experience--just when he thought he'd finally begun to grasp what was going on, just when he'd finally begun to piece what little information he had together to form a small portion of a great big picture, something else happened, something that would topple the very foundation of what he thought of as his understanding.

The figure might have been standing there all along, or it might have simply appeared there out of nowhere--that seemed to be the tradition here--but all of a sudden, _there it was._ Douglas barely had time to register the all-too-familiar shape before he crashed into it, almost at a full dash. The two were sent tumbling head-over-heels, Douglas scraping his nose and forehead on the wall before smashing face-first into the ground. The smell of mildew and something rotten immediately flooded his nostrils, and when paired with the panic of having crashed into what he thought he'd just seen, his heart leapt into his throat; he jerked himself to his feet as if he had just fallen not onto his supposedly dead partner but into a pit of giant, furry spiders.

"_John?!_" Douglas nearly shouted.

Herring did not respond; he gagged, hacked, spat--there was blood in it.

"John, here," Douglas said, lowering the tone of his voice as he knelt to his partner's side. "Stand up. Come on!" Slipping one arm around the cop's shoulders. Raising him up.

"Douglas," Herring said through a mouthful of blood, his voice barely more than a chalky whisper. "We meet again."

"I thought you were dead!" Douglas said, not even realizing the grin on his face, so huge that it threatened to pull his face apart. "I saw...James, he shot you!"

"And it hurts like hell," Herring wheezed. "Right under the heart. An inch higher, and..."

A closer look showed Douglas that the wound was, indeed, still there, just below the heart--it had been wrapped in a criscross of blood-stained bandages at some point, but there it was, clear as day. Perhaps Douglas _had _mistaken the intensity of the wound? Perhaps Herring _had_ survived, and...

But disbelief had already overtaken Douglas. "I _saw_ him...you...in the heart...you fell..._nobody_ could have survived that!"

"Doug," Herring said, patting him on the shoulder. "Pull yourself together. I thought I was dead for sure, especially with that...that _thing..._running around down here, but...I don't think it saw me yet--"

"Wait, you mean--"

"I couldn't tell--" he paused, coughed a little more, spat a little more blood onto the wall. "--couldn't tell what it was in the light, but I saw it. Something, moving really fast. I think I lost it, but who knows for how long--we need to get moving."

Douglas glanced over his shoulder, all of a sudden convinced that the thing of which Herring spoke was right behind him. It wasn't. Turning back to Herring, he spoke: "What we need is to get you to a safe place."

"That's not important," Herring rasped. "If we stop now, then...then that thing will catch us. Or worse--maybe _James _will stop by to finish what he started."

"John, James is dead," Douglas said, unable to prevent a gleeful smile from covering his face. "Harry killed him."

Herring shot Douglas a puzzled look. "Harry?"

"Yeah, you remember--Harry, Heather's--"

"I'm confused," Herring said, and slumped to his knees.

"John," Douglas exclaimed, sliding his arm under his friend's shoulder. "Come on, we've got to get you out of here."

"Wait," Herring said, struggling. "Just...wait a second, alright?"

"What?"

Herring brushed his sweaty forehead with one sleeve--a sleeve that, like his shirt, was blood-stained, to the wrist.

_Something's not right,_ his inner voice beckoned. _Something's...not right._

He didn't know why he should be so upset by the sight of blood, but for some reason he was. No matter--there wasn't time to lament newfound phobia. They had to hurry.

"Where's--" Herring paused for a deep breath. "--Heather? You were together earlier."

"There's not really time to explain," Douglas said. "Basically, Harry took her."

"Harry?"

"Remember?" Douglas prodded. "Heather's dad. She brought him back to life--or something that looks like him, anyway--and he took her away."

"That's...weird," Herring contributed.

"_You're_ telling _me._"

"Where'd they go?"

"I don't know," Douglas sighed. "I have a feeling it's somewhere down here, but...well, I don't know which way to go. Running into you like I did, I'm surprised I can still tell which way I came from."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," Herring wheezed, pointing back down the hall from which he'd come--a dark, narrow corridor, branching at a ninety-degree angle to the right of the path Douglas had been following before his collision with Herring. "That way's a dead-end."

"I don't think we'll be getting out the way I came, either," Douglas said, furrowing his brow. "I guess that means the only way out is forward."

Rather suddenly, he felt Herring break free of his grasp.

"What?" Douglas said, frantically re-adjusting his flashlight towards Herring. "Where are you going?"

"I think I see something," Herring whispered, and started down the hall in the direction Douglas had been moving before their meeting. "Down there. Come on!"

"John," Douglas said, staggering to catch up to him, "wait!"

"There's no time," Herring said, beginning to move a little faster. "I think...I think I hear her!"

"Heather?" Douglas said, halting in place...listening. He could hear nothing.

"Hurry up!" Herring called from ahead.

"John, wait!"

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Walter never heard the first bullet hit the floor in a spatter of his own blood; the echo its metallic casing produced upon contact with the hard floor was drowned out by his own howl. The corridor carried the sound off to either side, across an unimaginable distance.

He knew it was stupid, but he forced himself to look down at the work he'd done--one of the bullets had been removed, but the wound was still gushing blood. If he didn't hurry, he would bleed to death right here, passed out beneath the underworld, forever lost to his one and only cause.

He had to move.

He reached into the wound just below his heart, trying to clasp the bullet between the nails of his index finger and thumb as he had done with the first, but succeeded only in tearing off a piece of raggedy flesh, startling another cry of pain from himself. This wound was too deep to handle using his fingernails alone; he would need some sort of tool.

_Like what? All I have is a gun._ He'd already used the top half of his shirt for a tourniquet, on top of that.

"_Damn it!_" he barked, pounding his fist onto the wall behind him...and knocking loose a chunk of stone right at the base, where the wall met the floor. He recoiled, surprised.

The structure would have to be awfully weak to just give way like that...mold, perhaps? Or...

_Maybe...hey, I bet I can--_

"Walter," he moaned, his voice just above a whisper, "you're a freakin' genius. Remind me to thank you when we get out of here, alright?"

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Herring was moving fast. _Too _fast...especially considering that only seconds ago, he'd been staggering and hacking like the victim of a gunshot wound--which he _should've _been.

Something wasn't right...the problem was, did it have to do with Herring, or with this place?

Or _both_?

_Not now, _Douglas reprimanded himself. _Maybe we'll get lucky and he really _does _hear something? After all, Herring's ears have always been better than mine._

But that didn't explain how he seemed to be jogging now--and faster than Douglas, at that. The detective was barely able to keep up; he had to grab the shoulder of Herring's shirt to slow him down enough to keep pace.

"Here," Herring said, and snatched Douglas' hand. "We won't make it if you keep dawdling like that."

"What do you mean, 'make it?'" Douglas asked. "Where are we going?"

Herring didn't respond; he only increased his running speed. Douglas had to flail wildly to keep his feet underneath him. He felt like he was being dragged behind a horse and coach.

"Herring, are you listening?" Douglas said, now shouting.

"Doug, relax," Herring said, his inflection seeming to imply that he saw Douglas as an incompetent child. "Stay with me, alright? I know what I'm doing."

They came to an intersection that split off to the left and the right. Douglas' forehead scraped the brick surface directly ahead as Herring dragged him around the corner to the right, and he almost lost his balance; his right shoe came down on the ground, but soon after scuffed up against a loose brick that would have been noticeable had they not been moving at such a speed as they were. The toe of his shoe pattered on the ground for a moment, skidding, and finally reclaimed its rhythm in awkward time with his left one.

"Herring, _slow down!_" Douglas shouted. "I can't keep up with you!"

"We're almost there," Herring called back. "Just..._hold...on!_"

"Herring, I--" but that was as far as he could get before the beam of his flashlight--as ready to fly loose from his hand as he was from Herring's--briefly shot across the very hand from whose grasp he threatened to fall.

A few moments ago, the sleeve of Herring's shirt had been stained red with blood. In the light, the sleeve had been in tatters, and Douglas could see what existed beneath it.

_That can't be,_ he thought. _I...I must've...it has to be a trick. The light fell on it wrong, or something._

"Doug, why are you slowing down?" Herring's voice echoed from up ahead. It seemed to be getting farther ahead than Herring himself was.

_That's because--_

Before he could finish the thought, Douglas tripped over something and went flying. He raised his other foot to avoid hitting the object again--and in doing so narrowly avoided a head-over-heels tumble that surely would have ruined him--only to hit another such object. The first foot came down just in time to keep him moving, but it was just a second too late to keep him from tripping over _another_ obstacle. It was only then that Douglas realized they were climbing a staircase. Not a very steep one, fortunately--had it been any steeper, there would have been no easy recovery from such a fall. He might well have broken his nose--was surprised that he hadn't, anyway--and wished he had a moment to be thankful that he hadn't.

Instead, he raised his foot in time to clear the fourth step, neatly settling back into the insane pace Herring had set as they topped the fifth and final step and swept past another intersection. Up ahead, Herring pulled him around a corner to the left, bringing them into a hall so narrow that Douglas' shoulders brushed against the walls to either side; if not for the thickness of his coat, the journey might have been much more painful for the skin there.

Douglas had almost completely lost control of his flashlight, mostly thanks to the decorative staircase they had just ascended; it had been everything in his power just to hold onto it for that short, horrible duration. He could only hope that Herring was taking him someplace closer to Heather than he was; he had no idea where they were going, or how he would find his way back if need be. They passed another two intersections--both four-ways--in the time it took these thoughts to race through his mind, and he realized with a rising sense of dismay that they could have passed countless other similar passages. He hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings at all; it would be next to impossible to determine with any accuracy which way he was going, especially if he were turned around, going back the _other_ way.

But that was not the only stressor hassling him; he worked to focus the light on Herring's arm once again...and saw that the sleeve was intact once again.

_There we go,_ he told himself, somewhat satisfied. _A trick of the lighting, that's all. Nothing more. You probably just mistook the blood stains for something else._

But he hadn't; he knew what he'd seen. It had been there.

_But it isn't now._

The thought should have comforted him, but it didn't.

_It _shouldn't he argued. _Something's definitely wrong, here. Something's wrong with Herring. Maybe he saw something down there that did something to him, or maybe...maybe something got to him and--_

"No," Douglas managed to assert out loud. "No way."

"What?" Herring hollered. "What are you saying back there?"

Douglas had only a second to respond, and he made use of it: "Sorry, thinking out loud."

"Heather?"

After a blink and a hesitation that felt _far_ too long to go unnoticed, Douglas cleared his throat and answered: "You could say so."

"It's alright," Herring said. "I understand. You're probably worried sick about her."

"I am," he said, and that was the truth.

_That depends on where you draw the line on "the truth."_

Yes, he was afraid for her...but that was not all he feared, not now. Now, he had something more important to worry about.

"Here," Herring said, and began to slow down.

"What?" Douglas said, unsettled. He should have been brought to ease by the decrease in speed, but instead he felt an impending dread welling up in his chest--a more extreme variety of the dread associated with having a serious conversation with a loved one.

"We're here," Herring said, finally releasing Douglas from his grasp. They had come to a halt just in front of the entrance of a square corridor, resting gallantly in the wall. The word which crossed Douglas' mind as his flashlight caressed the shape emblazened above this new passage was _Lion-headed,_ but that was not quite right. It looked like something that was probably _supposed_ to be a lion's head, but several things about it were off: there was no mane, only a smooth roundness to the entire head and ears (the latter of which were a bit too small, resembling meager ring-shapes), and the eyes looked like beets without stems or sprouts--just oval shapes, pointed on either end, almost so as to resemble a heart. The mouth was a jagged line that was probably supposed to indicate sadness--it seemed to connote the "trembly lip" so often associated with an impending outburst of tears.

All in all, the design was remarkably _plain._ Something about that unnerved Douglas even further than recent events had.

"Just follow me down these steps," Herring called, waving from down inside the "lion's" mouth. Even without the flashlight directly facing him, Douglas could see Herring standing with one leg on the third step and one leg on the fourth step...but before long, the cop was moving again, and Douglas darted the beam of his flashlight towards the staircase.

"Wait!" he called, running after him...and, with the practiced ease brought forth by thirty years of efforts in the field, drawing his gun with his free hand.

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Walter assumed that this was the kind of thing people quoted as "proof" that a God existed; this kind of incredible luck, to stumble in his agony upon the one thing, the one needle in this haystack, that could possibly save him...and to both realize it and be able to utilize it. The piece of stone which had fallen loose from the wall was not strong, nor was it surgery-friendly; it was about half the size of his fist, soft and smooth on one end--the end that had been facing outward--and so narrow as to be almost sharp on the other. Its shape was reminiscent of a fancy diamond, so perfect as to seem supernatural.

It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. Hell, a _pencil_ would have helped right now--he wasn't worried about precision, or even being able to _see_ the damn thing. No, he was more worried about being able to withstand the searing agony of removing the second bullet by, in effect, carving the flesh away from the area around it so that he could pry it loose. The plan was simple: the bullet was too deep for even his almost affeminately-lengthy nails to remove in the same respect as the first bullet, so he would have to use the narrow end of the stone--which was, thankfully, about half the width of his pinky-finger at its thinnest point--to sort of _press against_ the side of the round and ever-so-slowly drag it against the inside of the wound until it was far out enough to remove with his fingers. The whole idea reminded him of a suspense-movie cliche where some character, trapped in a locked cell, was forced to tie his or her clothes together and form a rope, which he or she would then use to latch onto a set of keys at some convenient location elsewhere in the room, drag them towards him- or herself, and unlock the door.

_Thank God these little bastards didn't go any deeper, or I'd literally have to tear myself apart to get them out._

"I don't even know if I can do _this,_" he moaned. The pain would be excruciating, he knew, for he had no means by which to dull it or even take the edge off of it. The only motivation he had was that all of this horrible mutilation would be undone when, at last, the final bullet had been removed.

Following a short gathering of will with a deep breath, Walter paused...and went to work.

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Because his flashlight was pointed at the floor for the moment, the first thing he noticed was how dry it was at the bottom of the staircase; every breath scraped the front of his throat like sandpaper, and he was reminded for the first time since eleventh grade what it felt like to have a mild case of strep throat. Every few breaths or so, he had to clear his throat in order to avoid the sensation of stinging dryness.

Preoccupied with that as he was, it came as no surprise when his foot slammed into something on the ground--no, not _something;_ a _pile_ of somethings. He immediately turned his flashlight towards the object(s), allowing a few seconds for his eyes to adjust...and then recoiled in disgust (though not surprise, honestly; he'd come to expect much worse from a place like this).

The pile of skulls into which he'd stumbled wouldn't have been so devastating to him if they had just been plain, dead skulls...but they were so much more. They were _fresh_. Some of them still had flesh on them, and one of them actually appeared to still have a brain inside it, visible through the hollow eye sockets. Douglas' harsh reaction had kicked a few of them out of place and sent them rolling across the floor or flying through the air and, in the case of the former, leaving a thin trail of blood in their wake.

"What...?!" Douglas barely had time to say before his breath left him. He knew it was probably a bad idea, but he turned his flashlight up in order to get a good view of the rest of the room.

By now his eyes had become almost fully accustomed to the new darkness, and he was able to see the _real _hurting ground spread out before him in true sinister fashion: chains, dangling from the ceiling, cuffed to dismembered body parts--mostly arms and legs, but in one case the decaying head of a young child, approximate age indeterminate--vile contraptions that could only be torture chambers of some unspeakable kind, placed at varying intervals up and down the walls to either side of the chamber; one, to the left and several feet up the wall from where Douglas was standing, a terrible thing consisting of five chains--one for each limb and one for the neck--that looked too small to fit anyone over the age of seven or eight. Blood ran in thick, pasty tendrils from all corners of the device, implying that its inhabitant's end had not come easily (or quickly).

Douglas almost dropped his gun; he felt the hand in which it dwelt become weak and loosen its grip, and only by a sudden and vicious exercise of will was he able to reassert power over it. Now slightly trembling, he leveled the gun, crossing his hands at the wrist to form a makeshift-spotlight target, the way he'd been taught by his superiors during his first few weeks on police duty all those years ago.

As sick as it felt to think so, he knew that he shouldn't be too afraid of this place with concern to himself; if nothing else, he seemed to be safe from the standard hazing process to which most newcomers seemed to have been subjected under normal circumstances. He was much older than any of the victims of this place looked to have been, and in spite of how empty such a thought seemed to him while he stood in this place, affirming its place in reality, there was that much to be thankful for.

_Even if I wasn't, though,_ he thought,_ I would still have no choice but to keep going. The risk of dying here is nothing compared to what will happen if I don't stop Harry._

That was true beyond telling...for he didn't really know _what _would happen if he didn't stop Harry. He still wasn't entirely sure if this wasn't all part of a void between space and time, or if it was some other dimension altogether, or just something unfathomable and new, something that no man or woman had ever theorized. This place, this void beneath Silent Hill, might simply exist inside Heather's or Walter's (or even James') mind...or it might be real, super-imposed over reality through Heather's conscious mind. There were so many possibilities, so many things to consider...and not enough _time._

_Just move,_ Douglas told himself. _Figure it out later, if ever. It's not important, anyway--by this point, if you fail you won't live to see the aftermath._

As he took the first step, though, he heard a noise that caused him to stop--a faint, tinny squeal, like an axle that needed oiling.

He turned, flashing the light around the room, and saw nothing new.

"Hello?" he said; in his head, it had sounded proclamatory and full of vigor, but it came out as no more than a half-hearted inquiry.

There it was again...not a squeak, after all, but a high-pitched whine. Somebody speaking?

_Is someone _alive _down here?!_

That was when the flashlight beam came upon the source of the sound: a young person, hanging just above the ground, suspended by two chains which descended from the ceiling. The person was completely nude, yet of indeterminate gender for one simple reason: his or her torso had been ripped off in a jagged line from just above the left hip to about halfway up the right side, and the remaining chest area was too underdeveloped to be gender-determinate. Everything below the waist was gone--as was the left arm from the elbow down. Its head was completely shaven, and a look of utter, agnoized despair plagued its face, begging, pleading with him to end its miserable existence. Whoever it was, they knew this was their end; they just wanted it to be over.

_"Look," _the person squealed in a weak, pain-ravaged voice, fighting not to gag on a wad of blood. _"Look...out."_

From behind, a long, low rumbling, like a distorted electric bass guitar playing a single drawn-out note.

Douglas turned, flashlight and gun in hand, ready to take on the intruder...but there was nothing. His flashlight highlighted the same disturbing craftsmanship he'd seen a moment ago.

_"Shoo...shoot...shoo--_"

Douglas felt his heart skip a beat when the person's voice was abruptly cut off, enveloped in tearing, searing fury. When he turned back towards the dying person, heart racing, he or she was no longer there--the only proof that he or she ever _had_ been there were the two chains which had suspended him/her, and the hands and wrists which still clung to them.

The room was fairly large, but even several seconds of skimming could not relocate the victim.

_Whatever did this...it's still here,_ he thought. The victim must have been trying to warn him.

Then, from right behind him, that long, low bass noise again.

Douglas felt faint with terror, suddenly very disheartened. He felt like the main character in one of those stupid _Saw _movies, the type of character who always seemed to get screwed no matter what they did. He was sure that he would feel the killer's hands (or claws, or whatever else it might have) sink into the back of his neck, sever his jugular vein, and end his quest right there. He only had time to reassure his grip on both the gun and the flashlight and pivot to face his assailant.

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The second round clattered to the floor, now as harmless as its cousin...but Walter didn't notice. He was too busy burying the agony in another scream. When the pain dulled to a somewhat-bearable level, Walter leaned his head back against the wall, exhausted. He wiped his face with one sleeve, and it came back drenched with sweat.

And blood.

"What?" He ran his exposed left hand over his face again, and it came back with a bloody streak from his wrist to the base of his middle finger. He wished like hell that there was a mirror somewhere nearby, so he could see how bad he looked...but another part of him, equally alarmed, thought that might not be such a good idea, anyway. He already knew that he was bleeding from his mouth now, too, probably from somewhere deep inside. The bullets hadn't appeared to have gone very deep, but who knew? They could have been spread-tipped rounds. He hadn't been specific in the details of their creation, so maybe someone else had filled in the blanks?

_I'll have to be more meticulous next time,_ he thought to himself. _Now...just one more round, and I'm home free._

He leaned forward, sucking in on his chest to afford himself the best view of his lower abdomen, and recoiled as a dagger of pain tore through him. It should have been common sense for him not to try to bend in his current state, but he hadn't been paying attention.

_Damn it._

He would have to do the third one without looking--he wasn't going to be able to lean forward, or even bend at all, until that bullet was gone--but even so, he seemed to have made _some _progress; his head was starting to clear up a little bit, in spite of the fact that it seemed to be bleeding profusely from inside.

_With all my luck, I'm probably having a stroke or something._

He squinted his eyes, bracing his entire body for the final agony that was sure to come...and began probing around the site of the third and final unsightly wound. He felt an unpleasant spark light up in that immediate vicinity, ready to explode into a full-blown inferno at a moment's notice, and then...he pulled away.

"I can't do this," he intoned. "I just..._can't._"

_Yes, you can,_ he told himself. _You _have _to, or else you'll die._

"It doesn't matter," he repeated. "I can't do it. I'm tapped."

_Don't be a dumbass! You've come this far, across ten--no, thirty--years! Don't give up now, when you're so close to the end!_

"I don't _want_ to give up," he said, gasping for breath--his chest was tightening up; he was preparing to faint. He didn't have to be a doctor to know that it was probably from blood loss, and that he wouldn't wake up once he went out. "But I'm tapped. I'm out. I can't handle any more."

_You're wasting time,_ the voice in his mind pestered. _The next two minutes will decide the rest of your personal eternity. How do you want it to be? Pain...and then infinite glory? Or death, and defeat until the end of time?_

"Until...the end of time?" he muttered, too quiet to be whispering. "But the dream...there is no end. It'll come around again."

_This place is outside of eternity. There will be no end for you, if you finish here, now. This is the end of the line, for better or for worse--there will be no fourth day for you._

"But...what about the one with the...?"

_He won't make it. He hasn't before; why should he now?_

"But what if he does?"

_He won't._

The utter certainty in that voice was enough to frighten him deeply; he was reminded of the dream he'd had, from which he had awaken lying in his own coffin--the sense of despair, of utter, certain finality, the sense that eternity was not an infinite loop but a roll of Scotch Tape, a roll that seemed to go on forever and ever but had finally reached the end and simply spun free of its core, hurtling into the emptiness of eternity. The sense that time itself was dead.

He didn't want to be a part of that. He wanted to be _beyond_ that, _transcendent _of it. And the only way to do that--to spare himself the horror of total existence in a land of total desolation, the fate to which everyone was surely doomed if his guiding voice was correct--would be to reach and plead with God for mercy.

He gritted his teeth, seized the jutting stone in one impossibly tight fist...and approached the wound again, the last of his consciousness fading.

Soon, it would be over...for better or for worse.

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Douglas was afraid to pull the trigger; he had no idea how many shots were left in the gun, and he was terribly afraid of missing the first shot only to find that it had been his _only _shot. At the same time, though, he was afraid _not _to shoot, out of the fear that this would be his only chance to do so. So he took a gamble and pulled the trigger.

The bullet sailed off into the blackness...and ricocheted off of something on the far wall, whizzing uselessly past his left ear lobe. A little farther to the right, and the shot would have killed him.

_Where _is _it?_ he moaned in his head. He knew it was in here somewhere--it had taken that kid right off of his/her chains as if he/she had been no more than a toy on a rack at a convenient store. Now he feared both for Heather's life _and _for his own.

"Come on," he urged silently, not wanting to provoke it any further for fear that it might be intelligent enough to take him up on it. "Where are you?" He waited, waited...pivoted, spotting his flashlight straight ahead.

_There! _Movement, just out of range of his flashlight. He turned towards the source just in time to catch a glimpse of something long, narrow and pink-colored, sailing out of the path of the beam and back into the welcoming darkness.

_Welcoming for _him,_ at least,_ Douglas pondered. He felt his heart speeding up; he wanted badly to face his attacker...but he wasn't so sure he wanted to _see _it. Not while it was alive. It might just get to him in the wrong way.

"Stand still," Douglas pleaded, displeased with the desperation he heard in his own voice. "Quit moving around so much!"

Screeching metal, not too far off to the left. He turned.

There it was again. He caught sight of two wide trunks--presumably feet, maybe something else--rising up into the blackness.

It was _above _him now.

He took no chances; he turned his gun upward and fired three times, each shot traveling off in a different direction. He felt a surge of unparalleled joy--coupled with the most extreme anxiety he had ever felt in his life--when he heard that distorted bass noise again, accompanied by a meaty splattering sound. Seconds later, there was a crash just to the right of where he now stood. He gave his flashlight one final turn, and for the first time gazed upon his new enemy.

It was too large to fit in the beam of the flashlight, but what he saw of its flailing form was enough; two narrow feet, each the sickly color of interwoven scar-tissue, that ended in two razor-thin claws; thin legs, marked with wrinkled patterns that were either birthmarks or severe burns, that rose up past the beam of the flashlight. A long, pasty tongue dangled from the creature's mouth, which was beyond the reach of the flashlight--something Douglas felt thankful for; ugly as the tongue was, with thorn-like protrusions distributed in a freakish, uneven fashion all along either side, more likely the production of a nuclear mutation akin to that seen in a '60's horror flick than of natural development, Douglas had a feeling that the rest of the creature would be far worse.

But that was before he noticed the tattered remains of a pair of blue dress pants, dangling just below the top of the flashlight's beam, just below what was presumably the thing's waist. Seeing that all-too-familiar guise made him suddenly and extremely curious.

"_Go on, take a look,"_ a voice--both shrill and low at the same time, as if it were speaking with two overlaid tones instead of one--invited. "_I won't bite."_

Douglas felt all the fight run out of him; he knew that voice all too well. He didn't want to look. Even so, he found himself unable to resist the invitation of the thing which now stood before him, so he made a compromise: he raised his head upward, allowing his eyes to adjust just enough to make out the edges of the thing's total shape...but left the flashlight where it was.

He saw that it was much taller than he was. He saw no visible arms of any sort. He saw the shadowy outline of a head that looked like a child had made it in the sand, intending for it to resemble a castle of some sort, with malformed turrets and things that might have been dangling banners but were probably not. He saw two familiar _human_ eyes staring out of that horrid shape, seeming to feast on his own visage like a rat does cheese. He saw the faint glimmer of the familiar South Ashfield Police Department badge, and the familiar turquoise tie, now just a tattered ribbon.

He saw enough.

"You're not real," he said. "You never were. You died back there. I _knew _it!"

"_Nobody dies here, chum,_" the familiar voice said. _"You just take a little vacation. And you wish you'd just died and gone to hell instead."_

"_What did you do?!_" Douglas bellowed. "_John, what the hell did you do?!"_

"_I'm not John," _the thing said. "_They don't call me that."_

"No," Douglas said, wishing badly that he had a free hand to place over his gaping mouth.

"_Are you ready to join the party, Doug?" _John's imposing voice teased. "_Everything's about to go down--the Conjurer's on his way to the Mother, and the _other _Mother is on her way, too. It's gonna be the second big bang, I tell ya!"_

"Respect the dead," Douglas said, trembling and close to tears of outrage, and shot the beast in what he believed to be its chest. Once, twice, thrice. Each shot echoed throughout the hellish halls...but there was no subsequent ricochet. Every one had struck home.

"_You're good," _the thing that was not John Phillip Herring said, and fell over on its back. Douglas looked away as it passed into the beam of his light--he didn't want to see what sick joke this place had made of the guise of his former friend. "_How did you know?_"  
Douglas did not--_could _not--respond. He wanted no more to do with the thing that now lay dying before him. He wanted only to leave this place and find Heather.

_"She's already Become,_" the thing that was not Herring said. "_You're too late. You were too late, anyway--you were stupid to try."_

Douglas bit back a hateful retort and turned away from the dying thing. His flashlight reflected off of the implements of torture that covered the room's four walls, and for one moment he could see the twisted parody of his former friend's face in each and every surface, beckoning to him.

He closed his eyes, afraid that he would see it on the back of his eyelids, too...but there was only peaceful darkness. Yes...peaceful darkness.

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For the second time in less than ten minutes, Walter felt like he'd won the lottery.

There _was _no third bullet. It had passed right through him, exited out of his back just to the left of the junction between his hip and spinal cord. That explained why he was starting to feel better already; sure, he was still bleeding to death, but his head was beginning to feel a little clearer, and he found that the pain was beginning to subside.

_I'm gonna be alright,_ he thought, wondering where the voice in his head had run off to this time. _I'm gonna fuckin' live! How sweet is that?_

"Oh, so sweet," he answered out loud. He was glad, too--he wouldn't have to bear the unspeakable pain of DIY surgery again. He felt more uplifted than he ever had in his life; things were going to work out after all!

Now, he needed only to wait. Wait, and let the magic work.

_Let _God_ work,_ he corrected himself. _God wouldn't like you to steal credit, would you?_

He chuckled out loud. It was a wonderful sound; he was going to live. He was going to be lifted up above this sorry cesspool of a universe, brought up to the heavens to watch it all come crashing down, down, down the drain at the bottom of everything where it belonged.

And he would enjoy every minute of it: the revenge, the justice...the relief. He was safe at last.

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It didn't take long for Douglas to pinpoint the corridor on the opposite side of the room from which he'd entered. It was directly across from that first door, and it, too, lead up onto a staircase. He didn't look back.

As he took the first step, his flashlight began to flicker.

"Don't," he mumbled. "Please, don't. Not here, not when I'm so close."

The flashlight steadied.

Douglas sighed, relieved. He took the next two steps with one single motion.

The flashlight blinked out...and then flickered on. Off...on.

"Damn it," Douglas spat. "I don't have time for this...this crap. Alright?"

The flashlight gave no dissent.

"Alright," Douglas acknowledged, and climbed the staircase. The flashlight behaved well all the way up to the top, but once Douglas had cleared the last step, This time, its comforting, earthly glow did not return.

"_Shit,"_ Douglas hissed. He felt his heart speed up again, panicked to be enveloped in total darkness...but then he realized that he _wasn't _in total darkness afterall; the long, wide corridor into which he had stepped was not lit well, but it _was _lit. Far up on the walls to either side--probably thirty feet, at least--a series of torches extended from fancy golden pyres embedded into the brick wall. Each pyre bore the disturbing, smiling face of a human male, engraved in what appeared to be some expensive, shiny metal. The torches extended far up ahead, marking every twenty feet or so in pairs of two.

Wherever this was, it was close. Very close. He could feel it as deep as his heart.

_Heather...I'm almost there. Just keep fighting, alright? Keep fighting. Don't let him win._

He'd seen that demon take her in--make her Become, that creature had said--and he'd sensed the finality of the act--but some insistent, ignorant part of him still clung to a shining thing called hope...surely, the only thing keeping him from believing that Heather was in a place far worse than Hell. He _had _to believe she was still alive, still rescuable...for to accept the alternative would be to accept the most horrible thing of all: That there was a God, and he (or she) was truly insane. That God would not allow even a young woman, devastated by the loss of her only parent, the single mistake of trying to hold onto what was undeniably gone. That God would punish that woman with a fate worse than the worst imaginable.

If such a God existed, then--his crazy, romantic heart dreamed--he would strike that God down, and return the world to a state of sanity and order. He would separate Heather from the mass of that horrible creature, and he would return home with her, and they would live out the rest of their days in a state of restless happiness. Restless, yes; disturbed, yes; but happy, nonetheless. And sometimes, that happiness was all one could expect, even under the weight of all that despair, no matter how unfair it all seemed.

For there was no other choice.

END OF CHAPTER 35


	36. Finale Part 2 Blood

**Chapter 36**

**Finale Part 2: Blood**

_"Step one--slit my throat, step two--play in my blood_

_Step three--cover me in dirty sheets and run laughing out of the house_

_Step four--stop off at edgebrook creek and rinse your crimson hands..."_

"This Could Be Love," _Alkaline Trio_

_(Good Mourning)_

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_The next several minutes pass by as if in a dream; as he reaches his hand out to grasp her shoulder, narrowly missing the mark, his eyes begin to grow heavy, and suddenly his body is extremely difficult to hold up. He feels as if he hasn't slept in days (who knows? maybe he hasn't?). His vision grows faint and foggy; he is wading through a sea of jello._

_As if summoned, a brilliant red light bursts forth from beneath the floor grate, filling the room with an unholy flourescent glow. He can see everything once again--the piles of mulch-stuff, the gargantuan demon machine covering the back wall as far and high as can be seen._

_She is up ahead, just a few feet but quickly gaining. He starts towards her, but his eye is drawn down to the grated floor, where something has appeared: a sea of red, swirling with darkness and an undeniable air of menace. He can see it through the grating in the floor, descending for God knows how deep. He is drawn to it so intently that he is barely able to pull his head back up and resume his pursuit._

_But she is nowhere to be seen._

_"Eileen?" he calls out, but his voice is far away. He is drifting off...or is he? He feels ready to faint, but it is not a steady process; rather, he feels suspended in that drowsy pre-slumber phase often brought about by nighttime sinus medication. He starts to close his eyes, then quickly opens them, blinking harshly, afraid of falling asleep. It's as if something, somewhere close by, is pushing him, trying to knock him out. Walter, perhaps?_

_No, Walter _wants_ him to show._

It doesn't matter,_ he thinks, and blinks once more. When he opens his eyes again, his heart nearly bursts with surprise._

_A figure is standing across from him, about fifty feet or so. Close enough to recognize the humanoid shape, but too distant to spot any further detail. All he can see from here is a furious white mane of hair and a coarse, stale brown garment that drags on the ground at the figure's feet._

_"Walter?" he half-whispers, knowng it is not Walter but not ready to even speculate on its true nature, and dares to step closer to the creature. "Where is she?"_

_The figure steps forward, allowing the brilliant red light shining from beneath the floor to illuminate its features, and Henry can see that, while it's not exactly human, it probably never was, either. Its face--as well as every other inch of its body--is coated in an unbroken rust-colored robe, rough-textured and filthy from beginning to end._

_"What _are_ you?" he asks the thing, and it only raises its hand and points to him--the hand, too, eschews human feature; it is abnormally long, ending in five-foot fingers, each tipped by a serrated edge._

_"Rusheeva," it speaks to him, in a voice that is clearly not of this world. It is gruff, reminiscent of a cookie-monster heavy metal singer, and its syllables are buried beneath the accent, but he can understand them all the same. There's no _mis_understanding that word, not after he's heard it so many times--it matters not that the thing speaks the word _Receiver _with such a distorted accent._

_"Where is she?" he asks again, feeling for a gun that is not there._

_The thing utters a deep-throated growl._

_"I'm not afraid of you," he says, and it's not entirely a lie--he isn't afraid of _it,_ but he _is _afraid for Eileen. He's afraid for eternity. He swallows the surge of terror welling in his chest and draws from his memory of her, and the promise he made to himself and to her._

_The thing rears its head back and howls a congested death-metal scream, sending a wild, frantic fear down Henry's spine. He backs up a step or two, and that is when the thing gives chase. It drops down onto its two front legs--so they are legs, not arms, that is why they seem so awkward when it's standing--and charges._

_He can only stand there; he looks to his left and his right, desperately scanning the vicinity for some means of defense or escape. There is none; the closest pile of that mulch-stuff, behind which he might have been able to hide and try to confuse his attacker, is at least a hundred yards away; he is trapped in the open, and he can only stand and watch as his imminent death comes screaming towards him._

_And that is when the floor gives way._

_He can feel it long before it actually happens, but he mistakes it for the tremors caused by his assailant's rough movement, and actually gives up hope; but then he feels the angle between his feet and the floor steepen, and he realizes that the floor is opening up on a massive hinge somewhere--he can hear it creaking now. Seconds later, his feet begin to scrape against the metal, and he is moving slowly but surely towards the center of the room. That is when he realizes what is going on._

_On the far side of the room, lit by the crimson fluid below, he can see the floor opening horizontally, splitting down the center to form two massive, semi-circular panels. The mulch-stuff sitting on the panel across the room begins to slide, and then it all drifts into space, abruptly crashing into the redness below moments later. All at once he feels hundreds of pounds of the stuff come crashing into his back, and then he is going down, soaring through the air, and just before he breaches the gap in the middle of the room, he bangs his head on the opposing panel. Black stars fill his vision, and he is sure that he will faint now._

_But he is struck back into (reality?) when he hears the furious howl of his pursuer, mere inches away. It has sprung from the floor, down onto him, and when he turns to face it, it slashes for him with one outstretched claw. He tilts his head back, just barely avoiding a fatal blow to his jugular vein. The next time, he isn't so lucky--just before the two of them crash into the redness below, as he is struck dumb by the endless sea of reddish-black sky that spans in all directions above the ocean beneath him, the other claw strikes him across the chest, tearing through his shirt and digging three deep trenches in his flesh. He cries out, staring in disbelief as blood rushes to the surface and begins to trickle from the wound mere seconds after its birth._

_And then he is underwater._

_He thinks he is seeing the worst of it; surely, he will die down here; there is nothing but endless red in every direction. And Eileen is gone--probably for good, as he really expected. But then he realizes that the worst is yet to come._

_Far off, in the red ocean, he notices the faintest edge of a titanic, erratic shape. It looks like it could be a ship, or perhaps an iceberg or something, except for the fact that it seems to be _moving._ No, not moving, not quite...shifting. Its shape is shifting, as if fighting to maintain its stability._

_For no real reason, he is reminded of the leg that came crashing down across the street just outside of the Historical Society a thousand years ago, the leg that had come from a giant, unseen being. That being was child's play in comparison to this one, though--this one is easily the size of an entire city. It is _huge; _it blots out the entire far horizon, as far as can be seen beneath the surface of the blood-red ocean_.

_Henry spots his assailant, just a few feet up ahead. It is swimming rapidly towards him, moving its forearms and weaker back legs in a fashion so quick as to be terrifying. He begins to flail in the (water?), trying to pull himself away from the thing, but it is no use; the monster seems to have been born for aquatic travel. In seconds it will be on him, and his journey will end._

_The thing comes closer. He continues to flail, but to no avail. And then it is even closer. And then...then it is just a little bit closer, but..._

It's moving _away?_

_It's still swimming at him, exerting all of its strength--its horrendous biceps tremble and distort with effort--yet it is drifting away from him, as if the water around them has suddenly become as thick as molasses. And then, he realizes, he is moving, as well; both of them are being dragged into the depths._

_The massive, distant titan-shape is much closer now. It not only blots out the far horizon, but the water beneath him._

How big _is _it?

_He can feel the water around him begin to swirl, as if in a hurricane. But he knows this is no storm, at least not one by nature--the force which now moves the water around him belongs to that hulking nightmare in the distance, that impossibly large fortress of a thing. It is so close now that he can actually discern a pattern, a texture, on its surface: curly golden marks, scribbled all about the thing's surface, coming together at seemingly random intervals to form even more complex designs. From this distance, the entire series looks like a primitive rendition of a series of torrential ocean waves. And really, it makes sense--he thinks it's safe to say that Poseidon has his work cut out for him._

_And still, there is another revelation for him to come to terms with._

_What fills his heart with alarm in the next moment is not its size or its shape, or the designs thereof--intimidating as they may be--but the thing's flesh. It is crawling, moving by itself, as if coated with a trillion smaller organisms. It gives the hulking thing a hive-like appearance, and Henry can only imagine what will happen once it draws himself and his assailant to it._

_He closes his eyes and, for the first time, is close to tears of outrage and terror. He doesn't want to die--that's a given--but he would take a normal death over this any day of the week. He curses his decision to come back down here, and wonders if Eileen is somewhere else, suffering a similar fate. He is also frustrated; he feels as he imagines a compulsive gambler must feel once the final losing hand has been dealt; just _one more hand,_ just _one more shot,_ and it would all be alright, he knew it...he'd known the odds when he'd come back with Eileen, and he'd chosen to oblige her, anyway. He'd figured that they might actually have a chance in all this, that they might somehow be able to right the things that had been wronged. They'd had an ace in the hole, and they'd blown it, blown it sky-high._

Damn it...

_He can only hope that it is quick for both she--wherever she may be--and himself._

_When next he opens his eyes, the titan-thing is almost upon them. The other creature, the one that had only moments ago been at his throat, has forsaken him entirely, instead occupying itself with the task of escaping from the living hive which now threatens to engulf it. It thrashes, unleashing howl after howl of frustration, losing a struggle that seems futile to begin with._

_But there is yet another development for Henry to foresee._

_The surface below him--before him, behind him, seemingly all around him (_but it _can't _be all around me! That doesn't make any sense!)_--begins to ripple, first slightly and then more and more violently; soon it is twitching madly, as if something desperately seeks freedom from within. In Henry's mind it conjures the image of a mummy trying to escape from its tomb. He is terrified and revolted, but he cannot look away--as terrible as it is, it is also quite fascinating._

_As he and his attacker are drawn closer--almost upon the towering thing, now--the surface below them abruptly rips apart, and now there is only a yawning blackish-red abyss...and, in the center of that abyss, a visceral, shining red core. It is magnificent, wonderful, disturbing in its malevolence. It occupies his brain from the inside and pulls from within, seeming to try to peel him apart from the inside out. It is easily the most unpleasant sensation he has ever experienced, and yet he can do nothing to give life to his grievances._

_Both of them--he and his would-be murderer--are too close now. There is no escape. What will happen, will happen, and that will be it._

_The creature that was chasing him pauses for a moment, perhaps realizing the futility of its struggle...but then begins to thrash and scream violently, as if in agony. He feels his heart well with dread, but before he can react further, the thing simply disintegrates. There is a flash of brilliant light, and then particles of purple-ish blue, scattering like cockroaches, fleeing into the depths of the cavernous--no, ravinous--maw._

_He wonders if he will break apart, too. And if he does...will it hurt? Judging by that thing's reaction, it will. For how long, though? And where will he go? Will he stay here forever, trapped in the otherworld like Walter's victims? Or is this something new, something more horrible and original...or more merciful?_

_Before he can think, a leathery tearing sound overwhelms his senses with its magnitude, and he realizes that the hive-thing has drawn him in, and now it is closing the flap that serves as a mouth. The red light of the core is so bright now that he can barely see; it is so close, and its grip on his mind is growing stronger. He feels one half of his mind drifting towards a state of calm, of acceptance, of certainty...while the other half sails a sea of panicked desperation. He tries to turn himself around and swim back towards the edge of the "mouth," but already there is nothing but red, red, red, as far as the eye can see, and he can barely make out which way is up, much less which is out. His mind continues to split, and he imagines he can actually _feel_ his brain pulling apart. He now understands the agony of the creature that has disappeared before him; he begins to thrash, torn between acceptance and denial, truth and untruth, happiness and depression; he is being forced to experience every extreme emotion in the spectrum, every parallel, every opposite, and his brain cannot handle it--it's not made for this kind of overload. Soon he will simply go insane, or maybe he'll just die of a heart attack. Either way, he is already waiting for death to come and release him from this torment._

_Just like that, there is a massive _thump,_ a scattering of particles, and redness. Redness...and squirming sounds._

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"Henry."

He stirred, but didn't wake. Not quite.

"Henry!"

_Unnh._

Shaking. Someone was shaking him.

"Henry, please," her voice urged him, and he found the strength to open his eyes.

"Where?" he asked, wincing. He lay flat on his back, arms lax at his sides. A searing pain in his chest. "Where are we? What...what happened?"

"We're here," Eileen said, and smiled. "For better or for worse, we're here."

"Where did you go?" Henry asked, forcing himself to sit up. His chest burned white-hot as he moved, and he winced. With the pain came the memories. "I tried to follow you, but then...that thing, it--"

"The Ifrit came after you," Eileen said. "I know. But it's alright now."

Henry's brow furrowed as he met Eileen's gaze. "If...rit?"

"It's a spirit," Eileen said. "Or something like it. Don't worry about it."

"How do you know that?" he asked. "Eileen, what's going on?"

"The Visitor," Eileen said. "It saved you. It must have sensed who you were."

"The visitor? Is that...the one from the alley?"

Eileen nodded.

"How long have you known about this?"

"Not long," Eileen said, helping him to his feet. "I didn't really even remember all of it until now. I guess it's being as close to it as we are; being close to it seems to clear your head."

Henry scoffed. "I don't know what happened back there, but my head was anything but clear."

"That was the Ifrit," Eileen said. "It does pretty much the exact opposite. Being close to it...I don't know, it seems to be trying to drag your mind right out of your skull. I felt the same thing."

"No," Henry said. "After that thing died, or whatever...whatever happened to it, I felt something way worse. There was this red light...and everything was _splitting..."_

"Red light?" Eileen asked, muddled. "I don't know what that could have been, then."

"Whatever," Henry said, brushing past the idea. "How did we get here?" Glancing around now.

They were in a narrow, primitive hallway; in spite of that, suspiciously intricate stalactite formations covered the ceiling as far as the eye could see, following the dampened path in either direction and ending in total darkness. "And where _is_ this?"

Eileen looked at him with burning eyes. "We're close."

"What?" Henry met her gaze. "What do you mean? Close to what?"  
"To _her,"_ Eileen said, and pointed down the hallway behind her. "To _him._ To _everything._"

"Eileen," Henry said, looking deep into her eyes, really worried now. He didn't like her when she was like this; it made him think of the way she'd acted around those ghosts in Walter's first Otherworld--the speaking in tongues, and all that jazz.

"You know what I mean," Eileen said, not asked.

"Yes," Henry said. "Heather. Walter, too."

"But there's more," she said. "They're in the room at the end of this hallway. That's where it's going to end."

"Do you mean--" Henry started to ask.

Already, Eileen was nodding. "This is it. We've forced Walter's hand. There's nothing left for him after this. If we stop him here, then it's all over."

"And Heather?"

"That's entirely up to us, I reckon," she said, and rose to her feet. "If there's any chance at all of saving Douglas, we have to move fast. The four of them are already there."

"Where's 'there?'" Henry asked, steadily making his way to a standing position, trying not to aggravate the wounds on his chest. He could see now that they weren't as bad as he'd thought, they just burned like a bastard. Perhaps there was some kind of corrosive chemical in that thing's claws? Maybe a poison?

_I'd rather just not even bother with that now,_ Henry mused.

"Harry's there, too," Eileen continued. "I can feel him...he's angry." She paused, meditating on something. "I can't tell the difference between them anymore."

"Eileen, what are you saying?" Henry asked, exhasperated. "You keep talking like you can read minds, or something!"

Eileen turned towards him.

"Tell me what's going on!"

Eileen sighed.

"Eileen--" Henry began.

"Calm down," Eileen interrupted. "Everything'll make sense once we get there. Then I can..."

"Then you can what?"

"Then I can save Heather, that's _what,_" Eileen spat. "Look, I don't need you grilling me like this."

"I," he started, not entirely sure how to proceed--normally, he would have gauged his situation by watching the looks on the others' faces, but now that it was just him and Eileen, he had only his own gut to go by. "I didn't mean to 'grill' you. I'm just--well, I'm confused."

"I understand," Eileen said, starting down the hall. "I'll try to show you what I can."

"Why can't you just tell me?" he called, following after her.

"I'd love to, but I just don't have _time,_" Eileen said. "Walter's there, too. I'm not sure what he's thinking--I can't reach him for some reason--but I don't think he's going to fight Harry directly. He knows he can't win like that--he saw it before, when he got shot."

"How can you know that?"

"If we get there after Douglas beats Harry--if he even does," Eileen continued, ignoring him, "then Walter'll kill Douglas, and then he'll be waiting for us. We won't stand a chance."

Henry felt his blood run cold. It was as if he had turned to the last page of an ancient text and seen those words written on the last page in archaic script, prophesized since ancient times. They were undeniable, dangling over his head as a pendulum in a grandfather clock, mocking his resolve.

"Come on," Eileen said, taking his hand. "Trust me."

Henry saw her hand, met her eyes once more. "Eileen..."

"_Please,_" she said, her lips slightly apart in a gesture of uncertainty.

He was alarmed by how much this felt like coaxing a child out of doing something dangerous and stupid; however, he remembered his earlier PMS rationale, and knew he wasn't strong enough to oppose her. He didn't think anybody else would have been either, though, so at least there was that.

Even so, he could not speak. He felt all too well that he knew exactly what awaited them at the end of the tunnel, and as a result, anything he could've said would've come out wrong. So he let his feet do the talking.

END OF CHAPTER 36


	37. Finale Part 3 Bells and Horns

**Chapter 37**

**Finale Part 3: Bells and Horns...**

_"So many years have been ignored_

_You've been gone without a trace_

_I'm getting used to knowing you're_

_Just a name without a face."_

"Dear Father," _Sum 41_

_(Underclass Hero)_

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_He can hear them...the undying, the ones who live in between. They plead with him to join them, to come home, but he cannot--not now, not ever. Besides, there is still one thing he must do, one last link he must fasten before the chain can be complete. Only then can the Order be preserved. It will take a bit of trickery--the one he needs will not come to him easily--but for that he has the old man. He has the girl now, too, so he knows the old man will come. He also knows that he has drawn the attention of the other two, the interlopers._

They will be dealt with,_ he assures himself._

_They had _better_ be dealt with, one way or the other. They are the only ones who stand outside of the equation. Somebody, somewhere, must have broken the covenant. Impossible--for all was erased at the last end-time, as with every end-time, and cast into the void, so there should be nothing of the old thread left--but nonetheless, it has occurred. Somebody has leaked its secrets, things more ancient than the universe itself._

_The old man draws near. He is right outside._

_It is time._

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The final room was absolutely titanic--a much larger incarnation of the room that had contained the demon machine, rising up several hundred feet and topping off in a dome shape reminiscent of an ancient citadel. No windows, though--only solid, visceral red steel from bottom to top. The only other features of note included the great dais near the farthest edge of the room; it rose two levels, woven together around a wide staircase; a grand podium centered atop its highest level, presiding over the entire room. Behind that podium was where the Thing That Was Not Harry now stood.

"You," Douglas muttered, stepping forward.

"Old man," the Thing That Was Not Harry responded.

"Let her go," Douglas commanded from across the room, gradually closing the distance between them.

"I don't understand," the Harry-thing insisted.

"Like hell," Douglas hissed, and drew Walter's revolver. "She has nothing to do with this."

"She has _everything_ to do with this," the Harry-thing retorted. "You know."

"Liar," Douglas said, stopping at the base of the staircase. "And a bad one."

"What does it mean to be _bad,_ really?" Harry asked in a surprisingly sincere tone. "Good, bad...they're just words we throw around to try and explain away the things we feel. There is no such thing as good or bad. Those things are only a product of the human mind."

"Bad time for a philosophy lesson," Douglas sighed. He felt like he should be terrified, and deep down he probably was...but right now, he actually felt sort of calm: the confrontation was here. Now it was just down to a western-style draw; who would make the first move? There would only be one chance. He would have to see it coming, hear it over the incessant thumping of his heart in his chest.

"Prove me wrong, why don't you?" Harry teased, leaning forward onto the podium and clasping his hands. Douglas felt a pang of disgust; that thing was using Harry's body as if it were its very own.

All the same, he kept quiet. Maybe if he didn't humor it, it would shut up and get to the point.

"That's what I thought," Harry said, closing his eyes. "Good and evil are matters of perspective. The more you know, the more it becomes clear. One of the mistakes we make is to try and _limit_ the amount of information we receive, _hinder_ the very information that will enlighten us. Take this situation, for example--you called me 'bad,' a word synonymous with 'evil.' But that's because you don't understand the whole situation. And I don't blame you; your mind is mortal, just like your body. You _can't_ understand. And _she_ can't, either, not really--but she tried."

"Why are you telling me this?" Douglas demanded. "And for God's sake, why do you talk like you're one of us?"

"You mean a human?" Harry said, apparently intrigued. "Well, isn't that obvious?"

"You might have the look, but you're--"

"--a monster on the inside?" Harry interrupted. "You're not the only one who thinks that way. But again, that's because you don't know the truth. You should leave such matters to those of us who can fully examine them."

_Now he's talking like a God,_ Douglas pondered. _Who does he think he is?_ What _does he think he is?_

"Don't you _know_ who I think I am?" Harry said, confirming what Douglas had thought earlier: whatever "Harry" was, it was capable of reading minds. Douglas felt his heart sink.

"If you're trying to drop hints," Douglas said, "I'll tell you right now, you lost me."

"It's not really a hint, one way or the other," Harry said. "I'm just curious. You've impressed me with your strong sense of justice, of morality. I want to know where it comes from. It's quite efficient."

"What...?" One of Douglas' eyebrows arched upward.

"A lot of the people that've come through here in my time have had strong morals, just like you. But _un_like you, they tend to be misguided or misplaced. In you I see a nearly flawless source of morality. I want to know--what do you base that morality _on?_ What inspires you to be the way you are?"

"Why do you care?"

Harry sighed. "Why does anyone care about anything? Just humor me."

_This is crazy,_ Douglas mused. _Just shoot him!_ But he couldn't; for some reason, he felt compelled to hear the man/thing out.

"You have a way of--" Harry paused, making a seeking, swirling gesture with one finger. "--speaking to people's rational sides. I've seen you reach through enough emotions to bury a man alive and pull a sane person back out."

"What does any of this have to do with _anything_?" Douglas asked, somewhat alarmed to realize that he was actually engrossed. Was he being hypnotized? Or was it of his own doing?

"The point is, in some situations--situations _you_ seem to find yourself again rather easily--logic is the clear winner, and it brings us closer to truth on both sides. Many winning teams have relied on logic throughout the human history, and it has brought humanity farther than any other thought process throughout the ages, farther than anything that ever has or ever will come. You see this in a way that so many people don't...and yet...even logic is not perfect. Because logic demands proof. And in order for proof to mean something, it has to be properly interpreted. You also see that--you are capable of utilizing logic almost flawlessly. As flawlessly as you are capable, that is--what with you being Limited, and all.

"But on the other side...there is emotion. When you came to this town after seeing whatever you saw three years ago--and last week--you did so under the influence of emotion. Sure, there was some degree of logic involved--'I have to save her, so I'll go'--but that logic...it was based not upon facts but upon emotions. You put your feelings in place of fact."

"What else _could _I have done?" Douglas cried out.

"You could have left her to death," Harry said. "Or to whatever other fate awaited her."

"But I couldn't do that!"

"And why not?"  
"Because--" Douglas said, halting, realizing what he had come so close to saying.

Harry waited, observant as ever.

"Because...I love her. She's...she's like a daughter to me now. If I had left her, then it would've been no different than if I'd left my own son to die."

"Or shot him yourself?"

Douglas felt anger swell up in his chest. He fought to contain it before he allowed himself to speak--in doing so, he refused to look Harry in the eye. It was the only way. "You don't know _anything._"

"Of course I do," Harry said. "But if you'd rather not discuss it, then I'd agree, because that really didn't have much to do with my point."

"I don't give a damn _what_ your point is," Douglas said as calmly as he could manage, albeit through clenched teeth. "Enough talking. Let's finish this already."

"Is that what it's going to take?" Harry asked, finally rising from the podium. "All I want is a simple answer. We don't need to fight."

"We do," Douglas said. "You know as well as I do that you're not going to hand her over simply because I answer your question."

"I can't do that," Harry admitted. "She _is_ me now. We're one and the same. To give her over to you would be to give myself over, as well. You know that."

Douglas pointed the gun at Harry.

"I guess if that's how you want this to end," Harry said, cocking his head to one side and cracking his knuckles. "I will test you myself. I will see what drives you."

"Why do you even care?"

"Why does _anyone_ care?" Harry repeated rather sharply, now descending the staircase towards his quarry. "I have my motives. And now I want yours."

"You think my motives will make you a better person?" Douglas asked, starting to raise his voice. "You'll never be a good person, because you're not even a person at _all_."

"I'm not interested in being a 'good person,'" Harry said. There was now only a single level of the dais separating them. "However, I believe that whatever it is running through your head right now...I believe the rest of the world would do good to understand it. I admire how you choose your goals and beliefs with such reckless abandon, sometimes appearing to think it over and others appearing to rush in head-first. In turn, I admire how you pursue those goals so diligently, so ceaselessly. You only make promises you know you can keep. And you always _do_ keep those promises."

Douglas took a step back, aligning the sight with Harry's forehead. The time was approaching fast--_too_ fast.

_Almost..._

A pound of pressure on the trigger.

"But that's really why you're here, isn't it?" Harry said. "It would seem you're also a pretty good liar yourself."

Douglas felt his grip falter slightly. On one hand, that was an admission of guilt on Harry's own part...but...

"You don't love her," Harry said, his own brow descending. "You feel guilty. You feel guilty because you never spoke out."

"You don't know anything about that," Douglas said. "You couldn't possibly know. And even if you did, you couldn't understand. Stop pretending to."

"You use love as a shield to cover that, because you know people will respect you for it."

"Stop it," Douglas said, feeling tears of outrage pressing against the backs of his eyes.

"You see how love is romanticized, how ceaselessly it weaves itself into poetry and art, how beautiful the result. You see that, and you want to make it your own."

"It's not that simple," Douglas said. "If you could really read my mind, you'd be able to see that."

Harry ceased his descent...and smiled. "Can't put anything past you, can I? Nice catch."

Douglas wasn't sure how to respond.

"I was only testing," Harry said. "I wanted to see how far you would go. After all, what good is emotion if you can't express it?" Resuming his progress down the stairs. "You're more efficient than I thought."

"What _are _you?" Douglas asked, stepping back. Harry was almost on him now; just a few more feet, and...

"What are _you?"_ Harry shot back. "What are humans? What does it mean to be alive? Who do we trust--our emotions, or our logic? Our hearts, or our minds? Who do we turn to? Do we stay to ourselves, learn to survive without having to rely on others? Or do we seek out kindred spirits and draw on their experiences, add them to our own?"

Two pounds of pressure on the trigger now. One more step, and he wouldn't be able to help firing the gun. Paranoia was creeping over him; he could feel its cold, silky legs, like those of a dead spider, around his neck.

"I want to know what goes on inside you," Harry said, and now they were three feet apart. "And I _will_. Even if I have to _tear you open and look into your heart with my own eyes."_

Douglas fired twice. Both shots hit Harry in the chest, one to the left of his heart and one slightly up and to the right. He recoiled, but didn't seem fazed.

"Guns are for the mentally deficient," Harry said. "If you truly love her, then cast your gun aside and face me."

Douglas felt a spark of hope faint in his heart. He knew he shouldn't--to trust this thing was madness, plain and simple--but that didn't change what he felt.

"Well?" Harry asked, placing one hand on his hip. "What'll it be?"

Douglas gripped the gun tightly.

Harry stood before him, but would not look him in the eye.

_I wonder why not?_

His grip loosened...and the gun clattered onto the floor.

"Excellent," Harry said. "Now...shall we?"

Before Douglas could respond, Harry was gone. He turned around, expecting to see the monster/man right behind him, and saw nothing.

Nothing except...fog, that was. Lots and lots of fog.

The room was filling up with thick fog.

"What is this?" Douglas asked, waving his hands around before him as the fog began to drift in and obscure his vision. "What's going on?"

But there was nothing. Harry seemed to have vanished altogether.

_He's not gone,_ Douglas told himself. _He's out there somewhere, waiting for me. Hiding...but not because he has to._

He _wanted_ Douglas to find him...could it really be that simple?

"No," he mumbled out loud. "No, it couldn't."

_So what's the catch?_

The answer came swiftly from behind, in a haunting, familiar voice: "_Dad?"_

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_He doesn't quite understand what's going on in there, but he knows _something_ is going down._

_He peers into the final room from the in-between space, which he has ridden here, used like a streetcar from the days of old. He is gradually regaining the use of all of his abilities, and soon he will be ready to face the Thing That Is Not Harry. For now, he can see that Detective Dan has his hands full. He almost feels sorry for the guy--after hearing that bit about the girl, he can't help but feel his sincerity. Harry's just fucking with him._

Whatever,_ he thinks to himself. _He won't kill him--not right away--and that's all that matters. I've got a little bit of time, and that's all I need.

_All the same, he feels pressed. He knows there will be a narrow window of opportunity during which he will be able to strike. He almost feels bad that he'll have to kill the detective--the guy seems so straight and narrow now, in spite of all that's happened. But that's part of life, he supposes; sometimes, you've got to do things you don't want to do, _bad_ things. And sometimes, when it comes down to do or die, you have to do those bad things to people who might not really deserve them._

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"Oh," Douglas sighed, breathless. "Oh, my God."

"_Dad,"_ the young man called from just beyond the line of visibility. Douglas could make out his shape and nothing more, but even that was unnecessary--he knew that voice. It had haunted him since that fateful day all those years ago, had kept him awake countless nights and foiled as many days at work.

"You," Douglas whispered, unable to speak out loud. "Oh, my God...why? Why you, here?"

"_Dad, it's awful," _his son moaned, finally passing through the curtain of fog to stand before him. He looked not a day older than the day he'd been shot--still five-foot-four, with that same goofy mop of brown hair atop his head, combed backward in that same pretentious swoop, still wearing that same Anti-Flag t-shirt and long denim shorts--exactly the same in every way, minus the bullet wound in his chest...though that might as well have been there, anyway, for he could still see it in his mind.

"No," Douglas said, backing away. "You can't be here. You're...he's gone. This is a trick!"

_"What are you doing?" _the figure asked, his voice straining to function through long-dead vocal cords. "_You have to go."_

"What?" Douglas said, falling down into a sitting position, his legs stretched out before him. "This is wrong. This is...this is wrong!"

_"This is wrong because it's not real, dad," _Douglas' son told him, meeting his father's eyes with his own cold blue ones. "_None of it. You know better."_

"It _is_ real" he answered. "That guy--that thing, it doesn't know what it's saying."

"_Why do you want to believe that so badly?"_

Douglas hesitated.

_"You know the truth. You knew it when you went into that bank with your gun drawn, you knew it when you first saw her, and you know it now._ _So why are you still lying?"_

"Why are you doing this?" Douglas asked, glancing around in a panic. Harry was still nowhere to be seen. "What do you want from me?"

_"Why won't you say it?" _the specter pleaded, dropping onto his knees in front of Douglas, reaching out with his cold hands, alive but dead, no more than a memory and yet so much more. _"Have you really forgotten me?"_

"I haven't forgotten," Douglas said, his voice rasping with fury. If he allowed himself to speak any louder, he knew he would begin to scream. "I never have, and I never will. I promised you...I promised him that. Last time I was...last time I visited him."

_"It's harder to remember now," _the specter said. _"It gets harder every day, because you're _trying_ to forget me._"

_"No,_ I'm _not!_" Douglas almost shouted, rising to his knees. "I don't ever want to forget! I got over wishing I could do it all over again, and I moved on with my life, that's all! That's all I've done!"

_"No," _it persisted. _"You want to forget me. You want to be perfect--that's what you've always wanted. That's why you're so miserable. You can never appreciate what you don't have, or even what you _do _have. So you cover up the things you can't fix. You find spare parts that look like the originals, and you replace the old ones. You've always been that way."_

"It's not like that," Douglas said, but his words fell flat, as dead as the figure before him.

_"Then stop blaming yourself," _the thing said, looking into his father's eyes with a resolve that was cold, determined, and yet warm.

Douglas could only stare back, eyes brimming with a mixture of despair and rage: despair at everything that was happening, and rage at the kernel of truth hidden beneath all of it.

_"Dad," _the specter said, throwing his arms around Douglas. _"Don't you see? Don't you see what you have to do, now?"_

"Get away," Douglas said, fighting back, denying the tears that threatened to come. "Get away from me. This is sick."

_"You have to," _it said, ignoring his pleas. "_But...do it for _her."

Douglas pulled away, leaping to his feet. He felt weak, drained; If that had been Harry's plan all along, then it had succeeded--he'd been reeled in, hook, line and sinker. "You're not my son."

_"I'm all you have left," _the apparition told him. _"Take it, or leave it."_

"I want to keep him close to my heart," Douglas said, his voice barely a whisper. "But he's gone. Dead. And I'm no slave to the dead. Heather needs me now, and that's all that matters."

The apparition hesitated, smiled...and disappeared in a puff of fog.

As if on cue, the room began to clear up, the fog swirling up towards some unseen (and probably nonexistent) vent. In mere seconds, it was impossible to tell that there had ever been any fog at all.

From behind Douglas came the sound of clapping. He pivoted, fists clenched with an emotion stronger than rage.

"Good," Harry said. "Very good. But predictable. I wanted you to show me something I couldn't already guess."

"_Bastard,_" Douglas spat.

Harry dropped his hands to his sides and took a step backward. "I guess that's all there is to see, though. I guess that, as they say, is that."

"What are you--" Douglas began, trailing off in mid-sentence, partly from knowing that he wouldn't get a satisfactory answer and partly because of this new distraction before him.

Harry began to twitch, first mildly and then in such a way as to seem unnatural. His head bobbed abruptly from side to side, so hard that Douglas thought he could hear Harry's teeth rattling. Then, as if cued to startle the detective, Harry's head burst open.

Douglas recoiled, shouting, horrified.

Harry's body fell to the floor, limp.

Douglas stood fast for a moment...but then curiosity got the best of him, and he took a single step forward, leaning ahead ever-so-slightly.

The body was still.

And then it flopped.

Douglas shot backward again, shouting with disgust.

From the neckhole emerged a swelling, pink fleshy-mass, bulging outward, no larger than a party-size water balloon. It oozed out of the orifice and onto the floor...and began to swell.

Douglas' eyes darted around the room, seeking the gun he'd brought. It was as good as gone.

Pink veins became visible in the "skin" of the sac, and it started to pulsate rhythmically--first in short bursts, but with increasing strength and frequency. Soon it, too, was twitching as Harry's head had been only seconds ago, and the next thing Douglas knew it had expanded to the size of a canteloupe.

Abruptly, a node burst forth from the top of the sac. Its flesh sank inward, into the node, effectively carving human features into its surface. Two more such nodes burst forth from either side of the slimy sac-thing, they, too, bearing human features. It was a chilling sight to behold; Douglas had to fight back the sudden urge to gag.

Then, from within the sac--still expanding, now large enough to hold a person--he heard a long, blood-curtling scream. He knew the voice right away; his eyes grew wide, but before he could leap into action, the sac burst open, spraying a red liquid that had to be blood in all directions.

He cried out, stepping back and rubbing his eyes, trying to wipe the blood from them. After wiping most of it off using the sleeve of his coat, he could still only see through a faint red tint...but that did nothing to alleviate the shock of what he saw next.

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"What's the point of this, I wonder?" Henry asked, plucking the newspaper off of the wall of the tunnel, where it had been suspended with a nail through the top. His first thought had been that this was a strange place to find a newspaper; however, that had ceased to matter once he'd seen the headline on the front page: _Local Author Found Dead._

"What is it?" Eileen asked, peering over his shoulder.

"It's a paper," Henry told her, not really paying attention. "It's got that article about Harry's death on the front. But..."

"But what?" Eileen shook his shoulder with gentle--but urgent--curiosity.

"Something's not right," he said, pointing to a smaller article in the right-hand column. "This story, here--the one about that football guy from Maine--why is that here?"

"What's the problem?" Eileen asked. "It seems perfectly normal to me." Then, after a brief pause: "Aside from the obvious."

"No," Henry said, "it's not. But...it _does _make sense, in a way. That story's here because this paper is dated three years ago." He turned to Eileen. "That story broke three years ago. Do you remember hearing about it?"

"But," Eileen muttered. "How can that be? Harry was only killed a few days ago, wasn't he?"

"It's this place," Henry said. "It's messing with us again. Maybe it's that Harry-thing?"

"Let's go," Eileen said. "I've got a sinking feeling...Douglas is in trouble."

"I know," Henry said. "It's a weird vibe. In the air, or something."

They shared a knowing exchange, gazing into each other's eyes...leaning closer together now.

But then the moment passed, and she started on down the path, leaving him to wonder what could've come of it.

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Douglas saw her, but he was wary to approach her.

"Douglas!" she called to him, reaching; she sat before him, on her knees, drenched in blood from frazzled head to bare feet, tattered remnants of her outfit clinging wetly to her skin. It was unsettling, to say the least--a particularly profound work of living art.

"Heather," he whispered, hurtling himself at top-speed towards a decision; was this another trap--a 'test'--or had he really let her go?

_Of course it's a trap,_ he realized. _Either that, or he was lying about not being able to give her back._

"Douglas, why are you standing there?" Heather asked, her voice nearly at a fever pitch. "_Help me! I'm dying, here!_"

"Then we're halfway done," he said, watching.

Heather stared at him, a shocked, almost insane look on her face. Her upper lip began to tremble.

Douglas began to feel doubt in his heart...but he crushed it, knowing that to acknowledge it would mean death.

"Douglas," Heather pleaded...and the next thing the detective knew, he was standing idly by as a thousand tiny, dried-out cracks began permeating the surface of Heather's skin, all over her face, hands and legs. She seemed to realize that something was happening to her--though not what--as she had thrown her arms out before her and was now staring at them with alarm. All the same, she made no sound.

The deterioration began at the tips of her fingers; they simply crumbled like sand, fell onto the floor. Congealed blood stuck to them in dry, sticky clumps, holding some of the fragments together even as they fell. Her hands broke up next, down to the wrist, and then the decomposition continued up onto her arms. Her legs were following suit; by the time her arms had fully broken apart, her legs had done so up to her knees.

When it was all said and done, her head was all that remained. It rolled over, guided only by physics, and shot him a painful expression. The lips worked, the eyes twitched...and then the head, too, disintegrated.

Douglas sighed, trembling.

"See," Harry's voice echoed from atop the podium, far behind, "_this_ is what I was talking about."

Douglas turned once more.

"Before, when it was benificial to your character to humor the illusion, you did so. But this time, you were guided by anger. You thought I was trying to trick you, so you denied what you saw."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Douglas demanded once again, his nerve much shorter already. "What do you have to gain by _doing_ this?"

"I don't have anything to gain," Harry said. "Not anymore. I already have everything I need."

"Then _why?_"

"We'll talk about me in a moment. Right now, I want to examine the evidence a bit further--that time, with the girl, you cared more about beating _me_ at my purported 'game' than you did about saving the girl. And for that, you paid the price. You lost the gamble."

Douglas felt his mouth creep open._ No, it can't be. He--_

"You catch on fast," Harry acknowledged. "You just killed your little girl. That was her."

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_Ah, things are getting interesting!_

He didn't _really _kill her, though,_ he thinks. _...Did he?

_If he did, that's absolutely...evil. To play a person's emotions like that. But really, that's all the Harry-thing is; it's not a person, at least not anymore. It's tainted by many eons of insane power; it has come and gone with the tides of time and space many times; it's so jaded with existence in general that it carries out its days and nights exploiting human tendencies; a sort of otherworldly, god-like version of the proverbial kid who stands over the anthill with a magnifying lens on a sunny day._

_But is that _all_ it is?_

_He thinks not._

_Enough philosophy; the time to strike is almost upon him._

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"_Bullshit!_" Douglas shouted up the stairs.

"Anything but," Harry retorted. "I told you it was over, and I gave her back to you. And you chose your hatred for me over your love for her. And yet...I feel in your heart that your love for her was sincere. So why?"

"I'll kill you," Douglas said, and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"You're wasting your time," Harry said. "You won't kill me. The party hasn't even started, all the guests aren't even here yet. Your role in this is actually much smaller than you seem to think."

Clearing the first level of the dais. Now the second. Only ten feet away. Six...three...

"Honestly," Harry sighed. "What harm do you expect to do to me?"

Douglas tackled him; the both of them tumbled, hit the floor, and then Douglas was punching him in the face. He broke Harry's nose; he broke Harry's jaw; he dented Harry's forehead; he knocked out Harry's teeth; he punched until he could punch no more, and could only stare into the face of his "victim."

"Are oo uhn eht?" Harry asked him, pausing afterward to spit out a bloody tooth, then closing his mouth and licking his lips in a disturbing, primal gesture. When he resumed speaking, his teeth and jaw had returned to form as if by magic. "Because if you are, I think we're pretty much done. The others are almost here."

Douglas opened his mouth to speak, but blackness swarmed his vision before he could even articulate his thoughts. When at last his vision returned, he was back at the bottom of the dais, two feet up in the air, Harry's blazing hot (and yet somehow freezing cold) hand clasped tightly around his throat. And--amazing, though not surprising--Harry's facial features had re-aligned themselves, as had his teeth and jaw.

"Don't worry, I won't kill you," Harry said. "It's just for show."

Douglas choked a weak response: _What?_

From the distance, the creaking of a large metal doorway, followed by an echoing crash; distant voices, first quiet and then shouting: "_Douglas!_" Footsteps.

Douglas' eyes grew wide. _Henry! Damn it, no!_

Harry turned to face them, loosening his grip on Douglas, who subsequently fell to the ground. The metal floor greeted him coldly.

"_No!_" Douglas called out, and reached for Harry's ankle, but to no avail. The man that was not actually a man at all was already heading towards them.

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"It's about time," Harry shouted across the room to them. "I would say you're late, but your friend is alive, and I suppose that's what matters."

Henry saw that the Harry-thing was closing on them, and he threw himself in front of Eileen. "Stay back," he told her.  
"As if," she said, and pushed in front of him. "_You_ stay back."

"Eileen--"

"I know what I'm doing," she said, and pushed him backward. Then, turning to Harry: "Stop!"

Harry hesitated.

Henry did a double-take, genuinely surprised.

"I think there's someone you should speak to before we do this," Eileen said in a soft, almost motherly tone. "She misses you a lot."

Harry's smile faded; his tongue graced his lower lip. "What...what are you talking about? I don't--"

"_Da...daddy."_

Henry saw Eileen's lips form the words, so he knew that the voice he heard had passed from _her_ lips...but it was not _her_ _voice_. It was totally unfamiliar to him.

Harry's brow furrowed. "What do you think you're trying to pull, here?"

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_The time has come for her to break contact; The Visitor will make her last stand here, and afterwards she will help Eileen no more. The connection will be made clear to everyone at last, and perhaps it will be possible to break this terrible cycle once and for all._

_Eileen closes her eyes and directs all of her will towards the one she calls The Visitor, the one who is not a visitor at all but an ancient denizen herself. Soon, all will be explained, all will be revealed._

The time has come.

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The blinding light drowned out all sight, but even that was not enough to sate its unquenchable thirst; it probed around inside Henry's and Douglas' skulls, seeking to drown out all thought, all sound, all feeling, as well. There was a hollow emotion--rather, a lack thereof--a deep, penetrating emptiness, and then the light began to fade. With its recession came all of the things it had driven away, plus a newfound awareness of their current danger.

Henry saw Eileen standing less than ten feet from Harry, and felt his gut pressing against the back of his throat; the two seconds it took him to get to his feet again after being bowled over by the stunning light felt like minutes. But once he got to his feet, he found that his very will to move had been depleted.

_Don't be afraid, _an unfamiliar voice spoke to him in the center of his mind. _It's taken care of._

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Eileen looked into the eyes of the child who now stood before her; six or seven years old, no more, no less. Blonde-ish brown hair, blue eyes, just like Harry. A red sun dress with flower-shaped pins on the shoulders, and matching elegant red slippers. As Eileen felt her connection slipping away, she was able to pick up this last bit of information: The girl appeared similar to Harry now, but this was not how she had looked in her time--nor was this how the current inhabitant of Harry's body had appeared in _his_ time. The appearance was merely to establish a connection between them. For what purpose, Eileen would never know, for her own connection was now lost forever.

"Daddy," the child said, approaching Harry. "You can stop now."

"I don't know who you are," Harry insisted, pursing his lips. "Why do you call me 'daddy?'"

"Don't play, daddy," the child whined. "I want to go home."

"I...I don't remember," Harry said, raising one hand to his temple. "What...what is happening here? Who _are_ you? This isn't right."

"You can come home now, too," the child said, raising her own hand outward in a gesture of invitation. "Take my hand, and we can go home together. We can end the Cycle!"

"This isn't how it goes," Harry stated firmly, his brow narrowing. "You can't defy the Covenant! Everything will end! Everyone will _die!_"

"People die," the girl insisted. "And when they die, they don't come back. Why should this be any different?"

Harry seemed puzzled; he raised one hand to his temple and began to caress it, as though he were having a particularly potent migraine.

"It's tired, daddy," the girl said. "The world is tired. It wants to go to sleep."

"But if that happens--"

"There are other worlds. Just like there are other people, daddy, like you and me!"

"The Covenant is all-encompassing!"

"It's not fair," the girl pouted. "It's not fair that you get to say who lives and who dies."

"It's not me," Harry said, kneeling before the child. "You know that, don't you?"

"I can take you away," she said, clasping her hands around one of his. "I can break it!"

"I'll punish you," he said.

"That's why I've brought them here," she said, pointing to Henry and Eileen--the former, confused beyond the telling of it, and the latter, engrossed in such a way as to appear catatonic.

Harry examined Eileen and Henry from a distance. "They're the Interlopers. You're telling me _you _brought them here?"

The girl nodded, smiling. "I brought them here for you."

"What can they do?" Harry asked. "They're only human. You'd risk yourself for them?"

"That's it. That's exactly it! They're human. They aren't bound by the Covenant! They can stop you."

"Stop...me?"

"Yes! And then we can be together again. We can sleep in the Void, like we should've done a thousand million years ago!"

Harry closed his eyes, somewhat worked up. "You don't realize what you're saying."

"I do," she said, nodding, all the childlike arrogance gone from her expression; she was completely solemn.

"Even if that's the case...then you will join me."

"But daddy--"

"It's my nature," he said, rising to his feet again. "If you want to make things happen your way...then you'll have to take me by other means."

She appeared distressed for a moment, but then realization dawned on her face. "Alright, daddy. I'll do it. Whatever it takes."

Harry smiled coldly--a chilling thing to behold, a thing beneath which Henry sensed unspeakable malice.

The girl then turned back to Eileen. "Thank you," she said, and curtseyed.

Eileen nodded, smiling, and wiped a tear from her cheek.

The girl turned to Henry and did the same. "Thank you, sir."

Henry could only watch her, enthralled. Finally, he mustered the courage to speak: "What's going on?"

"Nothing you need to worry yourself over," she said. "To be honest, I should never have brought you here at all. I'm sorry about that."

"Why Eileen?"

"It's not safe here," she continued, ignoring him. "I have to follow him."

Henry started towards her. "Wait! You can't just leave like this, without explaining anything! Why did you hide from me? Why Eileen? How do you know Harry?"

The girl simply shook her head and turned away, following after Harry.

Henry started to follow her as well, but stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't," Eileen's voice whispered in his ear.

"Eileen, why?"

"She protected me from Walter. She's...well, she's sort of like a guardian angel, in a way. And now that she's helped us with our problems, she has to take care of her own."

"_What_ problems?" Henry asked. "I don't understand any of this. What's this about, what did she say, 'covenants?'"

"I don't understand, either," Eileen admitted. "But if that's all you take away from this, then you really haven't learned anything."

Henry started to respond, and realized he didn't have the right words. Didn't know if there _were_ any right words.

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Climbing to his feet--a thing at which he was becoming particularly adept, what with all this practice--Douglas watched the girl as she drew closer to Harry, and felt his heart begin to race. He saw Henry and Eileen conversing about something--Henry seemed flustered, but otherwise alright--and the way that girl was looking at Harry didn't exactly seem endearing...who was she? What the hell was going on?

If that weren't enough, it turned out that there was one last factor to be considered; that factor chose this very moment to balance itself into the equation.

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Gunshots preceded the threat that issued from the far side of the room, a telltale sign that Walter had, at last, chosen to surface.

"Stop that nonsense, right there!"

Harry and the girl turned towards the sound.

"That's right," Walter said, stomping across the room, "I'm talking to you!" He aimed his gun at the child; her eyes grew wide as she realized what was going on. A thunderous crash echoed far and wide; the round pierced her forehead easily.

The girl didn't appear fazed. She looked at Walter and scoffed.

"What are you so happy about?" Walter jeered, leveling his aim towards the offending party. "You think the same thing's going to happen now that happened with your old man?"

"Maybe," she said, "and maybe not. All you need to know is, you don't want to get in the middle of this. It's beyond you."

Walter raised his gun again and set free a battle cry that would have been bone-chilling under other circumstances, but for now it just seemed funny. Douglas chuckled, and Henry and Eileen shared a smile. It was a horrible thing to smile at, but the emotion was there.

"You still want to fight with _me_?" the girl asked, incredulous. "Why?"

"I'm not just gonna let you take my opportunity from me," Walter said. "Not after all this way I've come to get here. I've been searching for thirty-some-odd years to get my hands on what you have in there, and I'm _not going to let it slip through my fingers!_"

"You're still just a kid," Harry said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You don't look anything like I remember."

"Stop talking and cough it up!" Walter barked.

"No matter," Harry continued, completely oblivious to Walter's threats. "You'll get your chance. Once we're finished, I'll come to you."

Walter scrunched his face together in an attempt to appear ferocious, but everyone in the room could tell that he was uncomfortable--perhaps put off by the sincere surety of his would-be quarry.

"You can't destroy me," Harry said. "And you'll never achieve what I have. You can't; it's already been laid out in the Covenant, by which your very existence--your free will itself--is bound."

"I don't know what you're blabbering about," Walter said, managing a crooked smile. "I'll give you that much. But if you're trying to scare me away, it's not working."

"I honestly couldn't care _less_ if you're afraid," Harry said, growing irritable. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think it's about time we end this."

"People like you scare me," the girl interjected, meeting the insane gleam in Walter's eyes. "I'm going to destroy the power, so you can never have it."

"Oh, really?" Walter said. "And how do you plan to do that?"

Harry sighed.

"Don't give me _that_," Walter blurted. "Now here's the deal--you can give me your power. Turn it over to me. One man's responsibility is another man's pride and joy. Think about it--you'd be free of your bindings. You'd never hear from me again."

"You just don't get it," Harry said. "It's not yours to _control_. There are forces far greater than you in this universe; things fall into place in such a way as to force other things to do the same. No matter how much power you attain, you'll never be independent."

"Then I'll just keep going," Walter said, a smug look on his face. "There has to be a top. There's a top to every tower."

"Not this one," Harry said. "The higher you climb, the greater your despair will become. You're Limited; you will never understand. Never _be able_ to understand. It's best if you just wait."

"I'm not waiting," Walter pouted.

"Suit yourself," Harry said, turning back towards the girl. "If you don't mind, I have some--"

"Fine," Walter cut in, exhasperated, and lowered his revolver. "I guess, if you want to be stubborn about it, then you won't mind if I just go over your head?"

Harry's mouth worked, fell open slightly.

"You can't do that," the girl said. The sudden pale overtone of her skin said otherwise.

"Wanna bet?" Walter said, taking a step backward. "I'll do it right now. _Buddy? It's time!"_

Without warning, the wall behind the podium burst open from the ceiling to the floor, sending a spray of debris onto the ground all around. From the resulting hole, a titanic worm-shape, several hundred feet long, came forth and _uncurled _from the realm beyond the wall, as if it had been hibernating silently back there all this time, waiting. It slammed onto the floor, shaking the entire foundation; it was easily the size of a bullet-train, with thousands of metallic legs lining its underside and that all-too-familiar red smudge on the foremost segment of its body.

_Metalhead._

Harry shouted something, but in all the commotion, it was nearly impossible to tell what it was. To Henry, it sounded like _Rafalga._

Metalhead crashed onto the podium as it fell, tearing a trench straight down the center, destroying the staircase. Once it hit the ground, its mechanical legs buzzed into motion, carrying it towards Harry and the child beside him--it made a sharp ninety-degree turn, and then it was upon them.

"_You idiot!"_ Harry called, staring with horrified wonder at the thing bearing down upon him. "_So it _was _you who broke the seal!"_

"To be honest," Walter shouted through cupped hands, "I don't really know _what _this thing is. I just know that it really, really likes me...and it really, really _hates_ you."

Harry didn't have time to say anything else in response; the behemoth Metalhead bore down on him, digging a groove in the metal floor as it moved. It burst through the far wall and simply kept going, presumably back into whatever abyss it had crawled from.

And just like that, everything was silent again.

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"_You!_"

"What?" Walter called, seeming slightly put off. "What?"

The girl halted a short distance from him. "You _jerk!_ Do you have any idea what you've _done?_"

Walter didn't seem to think he did.

"You think you killed him, don't you? Well, you're wrong. You only made him mad."

"Listen, kiddie, I don't know what you think you know, but--" Before he could finish, the room was interrupted by a furious tremor.

"_Now_ you're gonna get it," she said, eyes brimming with frustrated tears. "You've _ruined everything!_"

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Douglas saw his chance; he made a break towards Walter, intending to bum rush him and swipe his gun. He managed to put the distance between them at no less than ten feet before Walter heard his footsteps and turned.

"What?" Walter said, disbelieving, and chuckled. "You serious?"

Douglas' reflex told him to stop, but he fought it and kept going. It was now or never.

"Whatever," Walter said, and shot Douglas in the chest at point-blank range, startling a cry from him; his feet kept going, but the force of the bullet sent him crashing onto his back. His feet kicked up into the air and landed on the floor a few seconds later.

Walter approached him, gun still drawn, and stood over the wheezing, sweaty detective. "What was _that_ all about, I wonder?"

Douglas tried to speak, but couldn't; the bullet had caught him in his right lung, and he was having a lot of trouble gathering breath.

"Out of nowhere, you tried to tackle me. I wasn't doing _nothin' _to ya!"

He wanted badly to say _You're going to ruin a perfectly good chance, you idiot!_

"Whatever. I guess if you want to be my enemy, we can do it that way." And he shot him twice more, once in the other lung and once in the gut.

Douglas grimaced for a moment, ceased...and lay motionless.

"Pfft," Walter said. "Wuss."

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"_Doug!_"

Henry bolted. He heard Eileen's cries of protest and didn't care, felt her grip slip away from his shoulder and didn't give a damn; there was only Walter and Douglas and himself. Never mind the tremors shaking the ground so badly that he could barely stand up straight; never mind the low, rolling thunder that seemed to be issuing from beyond the walls and the floor as if this very room were alive and angry.

Walter saw Henry coming much sooner than he'd seen Douglas, but he didn't shoot. Instead, he let Henry run right up to him and punch him across the face.

"What the _hell?_" Henry almost shouted, his voice strained and full of panic. He punched Walter again.

"Hey, man," Walter said, rubbing his cheek and stepping back, "you saw him! _He_ came at _me._ And I swear to God, if you punch me again, I'll plug you, too."

"Why don't you?" Henry seethed.

"Because it's not time yet," he said, and nodded towards the hole in the wall. "Nothing personal. I'll come back for ya, I promise!"

The room was shaken by another violent tremor, knocking both Walter and Henry off of their feet. Walter landed on his back, and Henry landed face-down on top of him. It was because of that positioning that Walter saw what he saw, and pointed up at the ceiling: "Holy _shit!_"

Henry rolled off of the madman to face upward, and immediately saw the reason for Walter's dismay: through the fissure in the wall and ceiling from which Metalhead had come, a bubbly, brown substance had emerged, sticking fast to the walls around the crack and spreading across the ceiling at an alarming rate. But the real danger came from the gargantuan demi-human face that had formed in the center of the muck and was now glaring down at them.

The eyeballs were each the size of beach balls, bloodshot and cracked. They threatened to fall right out of the weak refuge to which they pitifully clung in the center of the brown mass on the ceiling, trembling maniacally with each movement of the thing's gargantuan lips.

"_THE SIGN OF THE END-TIME HAS COME,"_ a voice boomed from beyond the lips, shaking the floor with its magnitude, _"SO HAS YOUR SIGNAL BEEN ACKNOWLEDGED."_

Henry scrambled to his feet, scurrying away from Walter as quickly as he could. Walter, meanwhile, only stood and regarded the face with amazed abandon. He seemed both afraid and impressed at the same time; he couldn't _possibly_ be confident enough to believe he would be able to destroy that thing...could he?

"Takers, keepers," Walter said, and stepped forward, positioning himself directly under the face, right in front of what remained of the dais' staircase. "I'm gonna teach you respect, how's that?"

"_You idiot!" _the girl screamed, eyes locked on Walter.

Henry met her eyes, felt the hatred brimming beneath them. "What's happening?" he asked. "Is that...is that thing him?"

The girl would say nothing; instead, she nodded.

The face on the ceiling turned to acknowledge Henry. He felt its eyes on him, and turned to face it.

"_INTERLOPER," _it boomed. "_THIS IS YOUR DOING."_

Henry swallowed and, after a brief struggle, managed to take his eyes from the squirming mass and direct them towards the girl. "He's not your father anymore. That's what you meant earlier, wasn't it--you have to kill him?" He had to shout in order to hear his own voice over the sound of the tremors--the floors, twisting from the tension, and the walls, bending inward now.

The girl wasn't even paying attention to him. Now she, too, was enthralled with the visage of the ceiling-demon and his work.

"When he said you'd have to take him by other means...that's what he meant."

"I don't _want_ to," she said, her voice meek, powerless. "But he's stuck. Everything came down on him, and now he can't get out."

"I know," Henry said. "At least, I think I do."

"You can't understand," she said.

"Not enough, no," Henry agreed. "But that's one of the things I've always enjoyed about life--you don't always _have_ to know."

She regarded him with confusion.

"He's going to try to kill you if you go to him now," Henry said. "That's right, isn't it?"

No response.

"What do we have to do to stop him?"

That seemed to get her attention; her eyes conveyed her surprise quite well.

"That's why you came here, isn't it? To stop him? That's why you needed our help."

"Well, I, um--"

"What did you mean when you said Walter ruined everything?"

She shook her head vehemently. "He...he thinks he can just steal the Covenant away for himself. But he doesn't know that Walter isn't just a monster anymore; he _is_ the Void. He _is _the Covenant!"

Henry hesitated; Walter? The very structure of that sentence confounded him. From the way she'd spoken, that made it sound like _Walter _was--

_"Henry!"_

He jerked his head up, alarmed by the ferocity of Eileen's cry.

"_Henry, look out!_"

He looked up just in time to see Harry's twisted new form descending on him, suspended from the ceiling by a network of muddy tendrils.

"Holy _crap,_" Henry muttered under his breath, backing away from the giant face as it bore down on him. "Why do you want me?"

Harry answered his question not with words but with an eardrum-pummeling howl, the resulting shockwaves of which were enough to send Henry tumbling onto his back. Unable to find his footing, he settled for crawling away from the demon on hands and heels.

_"Henry!_"

_Good God,_ Henry thought,_ her screams are almost as penetrating as--_

The thought tapered off when he saw the girl standing next to him. He opened his mouth to speak to her, but she interrupted with ominous words of her own.

"There's no other way," the girl said. "It's too late, now--I didn't want to do this, but I guess I'll have to take you with me."

"What do you mean?" Henry asked, panicking.

But she would not answer him. She would only kneel beside him, close her eyes, and pray.

Henry's next thoughts were driven clear from his mind by a stunning sense of vertigo; suddenly, the room seemed to be mounted on some swirling, tumbling device, something reminiscent of a cross between a merry-go-round and a see-saw. Colors began to bleed together, and sounds followed shortly after; the next thing he knew, his vision had narrowed down into a long, winding tunnel, and he seemed to be drawing away, away, away from everything.

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"Henry, com_e back!"_

_Eileen _dropped to her knees, screaming his name...but they were already gone. The face of Harry itself had overtaken them; it bubbled relentlessly into the ground, giving off a strong, fetid vapor as it went. The rest of the brown mass was still creeping in from beyond the walls, vast and endless. Soon it would be upon her and Douglas, as well.

_He's...gone,_ she thought. _And now..._

"No," she moaned, taking a step back, away from the site of Henry's disappearance and probable murder. "No, it...!"

_The girl was with him,_ intution noted. _Don't underestimate her. She was able to get you out of tougher spots than this._ _You'll just have to trust her...and trust him._

"I have to...trust him," she mumbled out loud. "Yeah."

_But that's not all. He left you with something. A task._

"Douglas," she remembered, hastily returning to his side. She lifted his wrist, felt his pulse.

Nothing.

No, wait...something. Faint, weak...but something was there. He was still alive.

_I've got to keep him that way for as long as I can, until Henry comes back._

But how?

_I'll figure something out._

Until then...

"Douglas," she hissed. "Douglas, you've got to wake up, right now! We have to get out of here!"

But Douglas would not wake; shaking him produced a grimace across his face, but that was most likely the result of pain shooting through to his sleeping consciousness; he was not getting up, and he certainly wasn't going anywhere.

"Douglas!"

The brown mass was all around them; closing in, now. She couldn't even see the ceiling anymore; the last of it had been overwhelmed by the mass from beyond the walls. It had surrounded them in an abstract igloo-shape, and it was getting closer.

Closer...

Eileen had one moment to wonder if Henry was alright before everything...stopped.

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Silence permeated everything; matter neither moved nor remained still. In a way, everything simply ceased to be, and all that remained was nothing...a vast, purple emptiness.

Void.

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_It's empty in here._

_There is no sound._

_There is nothing to see._

_There is...nothing. Nothing at all._

_Is this what death is like?_

_Am I even here?_

_I can't feel anything._

_What is this?_

_Is this the void?_

_Is this the power Walter is after?_

_It's horrible._

_I hate it._

_I want out._

_But not yet._

_There's something I have to do, first._

_But what?_

_I don't really understand any of this, but..._

He made the Covenant.

_What?_

My daddy. You called him "Harry."

_Is it you?_

He made the Covenant, two hundred Cycles ago.

_What is a Cycle?_

Two hundred eternities ago. Though there should only have been one eternity.

_A Cycle...is that an eternity?_

He made the same mistake as Walter.

_Can you hear me?  
_That's because he _is _Walter. Not the Walter from this Cycle, but from the very first one.

_Harry? Harry is Walter?_

Walter has become a permanent element of the Order.

_The Order? Like the cult? I don't understand..._

The Order...unconscious elements that guide the universe into being.

_Like..._

So many things could have been, but only some of them are.

From the Order we get Reason, Truth, and Sanity. From the Order we get order.

These things are undeniable. Without them...all that's left is death. Void.

_So I'm dead now?_

When the universe gets tired, it starts to die. It gets closer to _Nyub-dir, _the Void.

But two hundred Cycles ago, my daddy--Walter--tried to interfere with the Order, as your Walter now threatens to do.

_What?_

He succeeded in stopping the death of the Universe.

The universe should have died two hundred cycles ago, after its first life--its only _real_ life. Everything after that is...false.

But now...it keeps on living. It just wants to sleep. It's so tired...

When it dies, he brings it back. It collapses...and then it comes back. It _lives_ again.

He figured out how to tie the beginning to the end, so the end _is_ the beginning.

_Why doesn't he stop?_

He didn't want to die.

But now he's been living for so long. A million, trillion years, more than you could count even in your head.

_He doesn't want to stop?_

He wants it to be over. But he can't. When he made the Covenant, he sealed his fate.

The Covenant...that's the chain that fastens the end to the beginning.

He can't break the Covenant now. The Order won't let him; when he moved the Void and put the Covenant in its place, the rest of the Order...snapped into place around him. He became trapped.

And now, somebody has broken his Covenant.

_Who?_

_He_ believes this was done by your Walter, though I don't know how.

I asked your girlfriend to help me. If somebody can break the Covenant, then I might be able to help daddy--maybe stop this huge thing, this endless thing.

_That's why you want to kill him, then._

I have to kill him--the Covenant determines his will now. But Walter _can not_ be there to take his place, or the Covenant will use him, too.

The Covenant has to be broken for good.

_I think...I think I might get it._ But...w_hy are you telling me all this?_

Because you are the Receiver of Wisdom.

I don't know how it happened, but I know it has to do with the Covenant being broken.

This Cycle is special. With the Covenant broken, _anything_ is possible.

_And the 21 Sacraments..._

Everything in the New Cycle comes from the Covenant. Walter originally established the Covenant eternities ago through the 21 Sacraments--by manifesting his will into a parallel universe, one that reflected his dreams--his perceptions--of the real one.

_But that would mean...!_

My daddy is the very first Walter. He's the one who completed the 21 Sacraments two hundred Cycles ago, and survived the first collapse of the universe.

_So why...why does he look like Harry?_

I'm not sure. The person who took my daddy's power before James was killed when James took it from him, and then it bent to his will. And when the other girl took the power, it bent to _her_ will.

_But for that to be true...your father would have to be..._

Well, you know that we aren't human anymore. We haven't been for two hundred Cycles, since our bodies were eaten by the collapse.

The closest thing to what we are that you might understand is "memories." Memories bound by the Covenant.

_Are you...conscious?_

I can't understand, and I don't know.

_...I don't follow._

You can't. All you need to understand is that you're a product of chance: after two hundred Cycles, a single logical error caused by your Walter's breach in the Covenant launched a series of events that ultimately lead to your arrival. And because you're here, it's now possible to destroy the Covenant altogether and make sure it never comes back.

And when the Cycle is over, the universe can finally sleep.

Now there are only questions: Will you help me? Will you help my dad? Will you help the universe pass on and rest in peace?

_...I don't know. Isn't that like suicide?_

You can't kill what isn't truly alive.

_So that's it, then._

_I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to stop Walter._

_That's all I need to do, anyway, if I understand you. If I destroy Walter this time, then he won't gain your dad's power, and he won't kill me or Eileen, and he won't fix the Covenant._

_Then that's what I'll do._

Thank you.

_It's not because of you. I don't think it's right for anybody to have that level of control over everything. I think there are reasons why the universe is the way it is, why it's beyond our control. I think it's wrong of people like Walter to try and interfere with that, whether it's now or at the beginning of time._

_I want to finish this and go home, and let the world happen. Let _life_ happen._

I...I think I understand.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the Void, there was nothing.

From the Void cam something.

It was a round platform, two thousand feet in circumference, covered with blue and white tiles.

It came to rest in the center of the Void.

After that came two figures to inhabit the platform: a man in his early twenties, wearing a white long-sleeved button-up oxford shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans...and another man, with long reddish-brown hair, a purple coat that stopped about halfway between his waist and knees, a black t-shirt and khaki pants. This long-haired individual is complete now--he has overcome the divisive tactics he once used to survive his own death. He is the very essence of survival--it is quite fitting that _he_ should be the one who has inadvertantly set the universe on an endless cycle of suffering and exhaustion, bestowed upon it the torture of undeath.

The two men see one another and lock their narrowed eyes--one set a cool, brilliant azure shade of blue; the other burning bright with fiery-red resolve.

The time is none.

The place is nowhere.

The end is now.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"She told me."

Walter stared at Henry, seemingly oblivious.

"She told me everything. And she was right--you don't understand. You never will."

"You don't know jack," Walter jeered. "Quit taking advice from specters and you'll see what I mean."

"Why do you want to live forever, anyway?"

"Why _not?_" Walter mused out loud, beginning to pace in a small, slow circle, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "On the one hand, we have so _many_ different amazing ways to live life here on this mortal coil--we have religion, which allows us to dedicate our lives to a cause that may or may not be valid but in the end makes us happy either way, at least until we learn if we're wrong; religion promises afterlife, so one with doubtless faith isn't plagued with the question of, 'what's it all for?' We have atheism--or non-theism, if you please--which tells us to live life in the here-and-now, and appreciate the things we have, and not worry about an after-life or long-term spiritual issues. And then we have a mix-and-match-up of the two, where we just live life without asking too many questions, remain open to persuasion, and try to be happy."

"What's wrong with any of that?" Henry asked, trying not to clench his fists solely on nervous influence, keeping his eye on Walter all the while.

"Nothing, really," Walter admitted, "if you're willing to accept the idea that you're nothing more than a piece of a puzzle that you'll never see the whole of; the idea that your ideas, your life, will contribute to the growth of a big, beautiful tree whose fruit you'll never taste."

He paused, as if waiting for Henry to speak. Henry opted out.

"I'm more of a do-er, though, than a think-er," Walter continued, turning away from Henry and towards the swirling blackish-violet abyss that floated beyond the edge of the platform. "I think about these things and it tires me out. It saddens me, to think that so many lives are wasted every single day. So many people are just used up and tossed aside, and for what? Who gets to decide? I want to take that kind of waste and make something _useful_ out of it. I want to take a life that would have meant nothing and put it in a place that's totally out of character, a place nobody expects to see it."

"You want to make yourself a God," Henry said, "is what I'm hearing."

"Bah," Walter scoffed, waving a dismissal across the way. "God is such an over-rated term. Gods aren't all powerful. They're just _more_ powerful. Nobody is all-powerful. If God existed--and if he or she were all-powerful--then we wouldn't need laws to govern the universe. God could do it him- or her-self. Anytime someone denied the will of God, _boom--_they get their come-uppance. Anytime physics gets out of whack, _boom_--God sets it straight. If God can be anywhere, anytime, then he or she can do all those things without ever running out of juice. That's what omniscient means. Or, it could simply mean that God exists _as _the laws of the universe. In which case he doesn't really exist at all, and when you take that with what I just said, then you get an endless loop. So yes--the concept of Godhood _is_ overrated."

"What's your point?" Henry asked, exhasperated. He was getting nervous, waiting for Walter to strike--all this talking, it was likely Walter's attempt to drop Henry's guard.

Turning back towards him, Walter answered: "I don't understand why you want to stop me."

"You're insane," Henry said.

Walter cackled. "_That's _it? You're still constrained to some narrow moral ideology?"

"It's not narrow," Henry said. "It _is_ pretty selfish, though, to think that you _deserve_ to see what comes of everything that everybody does, all the time. It's also pretty selfish to think that it's okay for you to kill whoever you want--whoever you think isn't 'important' enough--on your way to becoming a God. And above all, it's selfish to think that, not only are you _important _enough to attain Godhood, but that you can sit here and talk to me like that and actually expect me to get out of your way so you can kill everyone I care about, all for your own self-flattering ideology."

Walter sighed. "You know, part of me was afraid you'd see it that way..." He reached into his coat...

...and just like that, it was on. Henry charged him.

Walter drew his gun and aimed it in one impossibly quick motion, but Henry was already too close; he grabbed the barrel and jerked it up and away, and the shot went wild.

"You...just...don't...give up...do you?" Walter asked through clenched teeth. Slowly--but undeniably--he began to force his arm back downward, and then the gun was pointed at Henry's face. Henry had only one resort, and he went for it--he knocked the gun out of Walter's hand using a karate-chop motion from the side, using his free hand. The angle caught Walter by surprise, and the gun flew free of the immediate conflict.

Henry took the chance to try and uppercut Walter in the chin, but he was struck down with sudden and excrutiating pain in his fist; Walter had seized the offending appendage in his own and was squeezing it tight. Henry cried out as he felt the bones stressing and bending, threatening to give way. Using his free hand, Walter punched Henry in the face--once, twice, thrice--kneed him in the groin, and shoved him backward. With that taken care of, he darted for the gun, which had slid to a point not far from the edge of the platform.

Henry was on the ground, reeling in agony, when he heard the click of the revolver. He opened his eyes and saw Walter bearing down on him, gun pointed. Before he could react, he heard the deafening report once again, mirrored by an immediate flare of pain in his chest--the lung, he always seemed to go for the lung. Henry gasped for breath.

"Dumbass," Walter said, and kicked him in the side--the same side as the lung he'd shot out, no less--also managing to aggravate the gash wounds inflicted earlier by what Eileen had called the _Ifrit_. "You knew it was worthless to try me. Even now, I'm too much of a God for you."

Henry opened his mouth, seeming to try to speak...and instead mustered all of his strength into a single sweeping, kicking motion. Walter, surprised that Henry had any fight left in him at all, took it straight in the ankles and sprawled face-up onto the ground. Henry saw his chance and rolled over onto the madman.

Without saying a word, Henry began pummeling Walter in the face--once, twice, three times, four times, five times--eventually losing count. Walter clawed and beat at his sides, his chest, his neck, and his face; it was a full-out melee, a fight in which neither one of them were willing to acknowledge pain. Henry felt his thoughts lose solidity as they melted into a blur of panicked fury, driven entirely by survival instinct; even his quickly-deepening oxygen debt failed to catch his attention.

Walter bellowed an unintelligable war-cry, pressing all of his weight against Henry's chest, trying to knock him over and reverse the odds. The first attempt failed--by luck alone, Henry had leaned forward for another punch just as Walter had made the effort--but the second time, Henry wasn't so lucky; rearing back for another blow, he fell over onto his back, and now _Walter_ was on top of _him._

"Just _die_ already!" Walter shouted into Henry's face, spraying spittle all over, and planted a fierce blow right in Henry's nose. Blood issued forth in a vicious spatter, and Henry's subsequent cry of pain seemed to confirm that something in there had broken.

_The gun. _Thoughts raced through Henry's mind in a blur. _The gun is my only chance. I have to get it. When Harry shot him, it seemed to do him pretty badly--if I can plug him enough, maybe he'll finally just keel over._

Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn't; either way...where the bloody hell _was _it? It was pretty hard to see; he had a fist in his eye.

Walter had dropped the vocalizations in favor of dedicated physical assault; his punches had become more aggravating now that he wasn't wasting breath. Henry was able to avoid a select few of them by jerking his head to the left or right a little bit, but once Walter caught onto that strategy, it became worthless. Even his arms did little to shield him.

The gun was behind Walter; he knew that. He couldn't see how far, but he knew it was that way--he hadn't seen it fly over his head when he'd knocked Walter down. He thought he could get it if it was over there, but he wouldn't have much time; much more of this and he wouldn't be able to hold on.

Still holding his arms up in front of his face to shield himself from the blows, he pressed his heels down into the ground as hard as he could. The floor was made of tile, so they weren't going to be able to dig in at all, but perhaps there would be enough friction...but he would need a free hand. Which would mean that, as long as he was feeling for the gun, he would be taking direct hits to the face. He thought he could take maybe four or five direct hits before it was over.

With his heels "dug" into the ground, he tried to bend his knees...and fought the urge to scream _Yes!_ when, instead of his feet pulling closer to his body, his _body_ pulled closer to his _feet._ He could get just enough friction to pull himself farther down the platform...but would he be able to move fast enough?

Walter caught on to his movement and concentrated more of his weight onto Henry's chest, trying to hold him down. Fortunately for Henry, it wasn't quite enough to do the job; he moved again, and felt his heart swell up when his foot gently kicked something. He heard it clatter on contact.

_There it is!_ Only a few more scoots, and he'd be on top of it. He just had to keep Walter from reaching for it first.

He began throwing punches back up at Walter. With one hand he tried to catch one of Walter's wrists and deflect the blows, and with the other he made feeble attempts to fight back by punching at Walter's chest. All the while, he continued to drag the both of them down the platform.

Judging by the distance he'd pulled by now, the gun should be very close. As soon as he went for it, Walter would notice, so he would have to be quick. Quick, and lucky. Just one more...

_Now!_

In one quick motion, Henry threw up his left arm in front of him, meekly defending himself from the flurry of fists, and with the other he began to scrounge frantically to the right. He lost hope when his hand didn't immediately settle around the grip of the gun, and he lost more hope when he saw Walter glance off to the side, privy to his scheme. He saw Walter abandon his assault and go for the gun, and he knew it was over...when he felt his hand slip neatly around the barrell of the gun, lying just at his waist.

Walter's hand closed around his own; without a second thought, Henry leaned up and sank his teeth as deep into Walter's hand as he could manage--deep enough to taste blood. He knew it wouldn't do any real damage, but perhaps the pain would buy him the few seconds he needed.

Sure enough, Walter cried out in surprise and jerked his hand away from the gun. Henry took advantage of the half-second it took Walter to snap back and switched the gun to his other hand, taking it by the butt this time. When at last Walter came down on him again, intending to finish him off, Henry thrust the barrell into his chest and plugged him.

He pulled the trigger six times, thinking in slow-motion the whole while that it was a damned miracle the gun had any ammunition in it at all; he knew that Walter had been able to reload it before by some otherworldly means, but he'd never stopped to consider the possibility that Walter could also _un_load it at will.

The first three shots took him in the heart. The fourth shot took him in the throat, and the fifth and final one took him in the left cheek, piercing upward through his brain. On the sixth pull, the magazine clicked empty.

Walter's eyes lit up with rage, staring down at him, ready to burn him...but his grip weakened. He staggered, tried to stand up, tripped and fell off to the side, landing on his knees. He tried again, this time making it to his feet, and clutched his chest with both hands.

Henry tried to stand up, but only made it as far as a kneeling position before the pain of being punched in the face thirty-seven times finally caught up with him. The gun fell from his hands; he closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands, moaning.

Walter, meanwhile, seemed to be trying to run away--he was rapidly shuffling between walking on his knees and staggering on his feet, trying to get to the edge of the platform.

As soon as the pounding in his brain began to wane, Henry scanned the area, saw Walter's strange fleeting behavior, and scooped the gun up off of the ground. He started towards Walter.

The madman had stopped just a couple of feet from the edge of the platform. He stared out into the fluctuating, swimming blackness, half-conscious. Henry wondered if he was going to jump in.

"_I'm," _Walter spoke up, his voice choked and pathetic.

"What?" Henry put some distance between them.

"_I'm...not...crazy," _he muttered. _"I wouldn't...go jumping...in...there...Nyub...deer..."_

As if responding to his claim, the darkness around the platform began to shift more quickly, swirling in and around itself, as a tornado preparing to rampage.

"_I guess...I guess you...you win," _Walter said, and with a distinct cry--_Uaagh--_fell onto his back. The actual _thud_ he made when he touched down wasn't that loud, but Henry would later swear that it had resounded throughout the universe--_all_ universes--a transdimensional cry of triumph.

Drained, Henry sighed...then, taking one last disdainful look at it, he hurled the gun he'd used to kill Walter off into the abyss.

The darkness accepted it gladly.

_It's...over,_ he thought to himself. _I did it._

For the first time in awhile, he allowed himself to sit down, close his eyes, and relax.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Where...where?"

"Douglas," Eileen exclaimed, clasping her arms around the detective's neck. "You're awake! Don't talk, alright?"

"Where...is...she?" he managed to say.

"I don't know," she admitted, ashamed that she could be of no more help.

"I'm not...leaving until I...find...her," he said, his words almost constantly interrupted with hacking fits. Near the end, he started coughing up red smacks of blood.

"Please, stop!" she said, and lay him back down. "You've been shot. Both lungs."

"And the gut," he moaned.

"If you'll just be quiet, it won't be as bad," Eileen reprimanded.

"Help me up," he insisted; though his voice was clearer, Eileen knew he wasn't any better. It was a meager effort to mask his condition.

"No," Eileen said, and tried to hold him down. "You won't live an hour if you waste all your strength right now."

Douglas rolled his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued. "I promised I'd save her."

"I know that, but you can't save _anyone _if you're dead. Besides, they're gone."

"Harry?"

"Harry, the girl, Walter, and Henry. They all disappeared."

"Where?"  
"Some kind of monster," she said, trembling. "It came from behind the walls. I think...I think that was the Harry-thing. Walter called that monster to attack Harry, and I think he...changed, or something."

Douglas conjured a hazy memory of the face-monster on the ceiling, and felt his blood run cold. "Yeah," he agreed.

"But don't worry," Eileen said. "I think it's gone now. Listen, I'm gonna try to get you some help, but you need to lie still, alright?"

"What is it with you people?" Douglas said in a weak whisper.

Eileen responded with a curious look.

"There aren't any medical facilities in this place. We need to worry about getting out of here first, _then_ we can do the medical thing."

"But--"

"No...buts about it," Douglas said, climbing up onto his knees, gasping for breath with every effort. As he reached them, he was seized by another fit of coughing spasms. This time, the blood from his mouth was more plentiful.

"Douglas, _no!_ Don't leave me here alone!"

He met her eyes and saw pure terror. He didn't really blame her, really.

"If you die, I'll be alone," she whined.

"No you...won't," Douglas assured her.

Eileen's expression expressed more doubt than words ever could.

"You don't...trust him?"

"I know he _wants_ to come back," Eileen said. "But I don't know. You didn't see the way they were taken up!"

"No," Douglas conceded, "but I know Henry. Maybe...maybe not as well as you do, but...I know him. He can...take care of himself."

"But Walter's not--"

"Walter is a panzy-ass, is what Walter is," Douglas wheezed. "He's a pathetic, piss-ant little schoolkid who never learned how to deal with his control issues."

Eileen blinked, clearly surprised.

"Stop being afraid of him," he spat.

"I can't!"

"You can," he said, "and if you want to believe in Henry, then you have to be. You have to--" he paused, racketed by another series of hacks and sputters. "--you have to think of Walter as just a little bully. Because that's what he is when you get down to it--god-powers or no god-powers." His voice was becoming alarmingly raspy.

She didn't answer him.

"Just trust him, alright? He'll do you good."

"I..."

The quiet that followed was unsettling for both parties, but they both would have agreed that it was better than the tremors that came after.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Am I asleep?_

_Damn it, I _am, _aren't I?_

_But wait...this is real._

_What's going on?_

_Hello? Is anybody there?_

This isn't right.

_You're telling me. I killed Walter._ _Shouldn't this be over now?_

That's not what I meant. This isn't right.

_What?_

He's done what Walter threatened to do.

_What, he went over his head? ...I don't get it._

It doesn't matter. You have to go.

_What about Heather?  
_She's lost to you.

_What?_

She's lost to you. Now go!

_No way. What do you mean, she's lost to me?_

She is one with _him_ now. You can never take her back.

_I don't believe you..._

I'm sorry. But it was her decision--she did it of her own free will.

_But she thought she was--_

It doesn't matter what she thought. She's lost to you. Now _go,_ unless you want to be lost, too!

_There has to be a way to save her!  
_You can't.

_Damn it, _work _with me!_

There isn't _time!_ _Nyub-dir_ is expanding. But it's not time yet!

_Time? Time for what? What's _Nyub-deer

It has arrived to initiate the End-Time.

_What?_ _There has to be a way to stop it!_

_There has to be! Come on!_

_Take me to him. I'll deal with him myself._

You're a fool.

_Um--_

Go! I have to stop it.

_Can you?_

I can.

_Let me help!_

When I do, though...when I do, _Nyub-dir_--the Void--will close, and with it will go this tired world.

That's why you have to go _now._

_Are you sure?_

Things are supposed to be able to die.

_I..._

Life is precious. But what makes us...what makes _you_ appreciate it most is the fact that it can be ripped out from under you at any time, without foreknowledge. If one can't die, then one can't truly appreciate life.

_I...I understand._

Thank you, Henry. Thank you for everything. If there was a God...if there _is_ a God, he or she will thank you for all that you've done for us.

Goodbye.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He awoke to the sound of Eileen's hysterical crying, and to the powerful stinging sensation of the bullet in his left lung.

"What...?"

"Henry, you're _alive!"_ She had her arms cinched around him, her face buried in his chest, issuing forth hysterical laughter. "You're alive, you're _alive!_"

Beyond her, Henry could see Douglas sitting up, smiling at them, all the more disturbing in its contrast with the chest of his shirt, which was absolutely drenched in blood.

"Eileen," he said, taking Eileen's hands. "Doug, too. You made it!"

"He's not well," Eileen confessed. "If we don't get him some help soon, he'll die."

"We might have time," Henry said. "We need to get out of here right now."

"Why? What's--"

..._coming...he's...COMING!_

"--enry?"

Henry shook his head, clearing the mess inside. "He's coming...?"

"Henry, what? _Who's _coming?"

"Walter," he said. "He's...well, he's pissed."

"No," Eileen wailed, full of despair. "Why won't he _die?_"

"Not that one. The other one."

"What?"

"No time," Henry said. "He's...he's trying to come after us. We have to go, _now._" He stood up and started towards Douglas.

"Henry, what are you talking about? The second one? Or are you telling me there's _another_ Walter?"

_...door. The door._

"The door. Back where we came in."

"Wha--"

"Eileen, just trust me, alright? She's helping me."

"Heather?" Douglas asked, hopeful.

"No," Henry said sharply. Douglas looked crushed.

Eileen understood, and nodded. "Alright."

"Help me get Douglas," Henry said, sliding one of the detective's arms over his own shoulder. Eileen followed suit and took his other arm. "Alright, guy," Henry said, patting Douglas on the back, "we're getting out of here."

"Not without Heather," Douglas said. "Where is she?"

Henry hesitated.

"Henry," Douglas said. "You know where she is, don't you?"

"Maybe."

"Then tell me!"

"Douglas--"

"Tell me," Douglas said, wrestling free, "or I'm staying here. I'll find her myself."

"Damn it," Henry said. "She's gone. She's gone for good, gone to the void. Walter got her. That girl, the Visitor, she's going to try and hold off Walter until we can leave. Then she's going to close him up."

Douglas was clearly shaken. "Then...then I'll just go there and save her myself."

"You won't die in there," Henry said, growing antsy. "You'll stay there forever, undying, until the end of time. Then he'll open again and release all of those...those _things_, and they will eat everything up, and that'll be it. Do you want to live to see that?"  
Douglas' mouth hung open, as if he had something to say, but no words came out. He relented...opened his mouth again...decided he had nothing to say.

"There's a reason people aren't supposed to be here," Henry said, trying to sound soothing. "Heather knew that, and she came here anyway."

_This isn't fair,_ Douglas thought to himself. _That's just it? I can't save her now? What was it all for, then?_

Just then, he heard the voice of the apparition speak up: You_ learned something, didn't you?_

"But I _helped _her!" Douglas shouted, spraying blood all around. Eileen screamed, nearly dropping him.

"Douglas!" Henry cried, grappling for purchase.

"I _helped _her, goddamnit! If I hadn't come here, she would still be alive and well, so don't...don't give me that _load_ about this being for my benefit! _You hear me?_"

_You can't replace him,_ that voice taunted. _Just remember that. You can never replace him._

Douglas dropped to his knees again, ridden by despair. He buried his bloody face in his hands.

"Doug, come _on,_" Henry shouted. "We've got to go. Walter's coming."

"If I had only known," Douglas whined. "If I'd only known...I could've saved her!"

"No you couldn't," Henry said, and shook him. Afterwards, when Douglas began coughing so hard and for so long that Henry feared he'd pushed him over the edge, Henry realized it hadn't been a good idea. "You couldn't. Everything is set, don't you get it? You did the same thing last time. And the time before that. The universe only really lives once--it just repeats itself after that. You're only doing what's supposed to happen!"

Douglas looked at Henry, suddenly wary.

"I know it sounds weird," Henry acknowledged. "Trust me, I'll explain it later. But for now we've got to _leave!"_

By now, the tremors had become so powerful that the room was beginning to incline.

Henry scanned the area, looking for the door, and finally spotted it at the far wall, not too far to the left of the podium (rather, what _remained_ of the podium). Taking Douglas once again, he and Eileen made their way towards the door on his direction.

To the left of the door--neatly fastened to the metal wall with what appeared to be a very dense nail, much like the newspaper he'd discovered in the hall beyond--someone had placed a small, folded map. Henry plucked it loose with ease.

It was folded up into a tiny square, two inches by two inches. He unfolded it to reveal an extremely complicated schematic of what appeared to be an oil refinery.

Thankfully, whoever had placed it here had also highlighted an easy-access escape route with bright green marker. The exit was marked on the other side of the map with a gleeful smiley-face sticker of the same color. Likewise, their current location--easily recognizable in context, as it was the largest room on the map--was stamped with a bright smiley-face above which were printed the words _YOU are HERE!_

_You wonderful, wonderful...um, person, you,_ Henry thought to himself, thanking the girl one last time before he, Douglas and Eileen made their exit.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Only one more task,_ Eileen pondered, somewhat relieved. It wasn't quite time to be relieved yet, of course, but just to know that they had come as far as they had--and that the sun was practically on the horizon--was a relief in itself. Soon they would be out of here, and maybe their lives could even get back on track--maybe even be _normal _someday!

The ground bent and twisted beneath their feet; it was much muddier than it had been coming in. The reason for this sudden moisture became clear once Eileen realized that water was seeping into the passage from various channels in the walls; whatever was happening back there to cause the tremors must have provoked those channels.

If that was the case, it had to be something _big._

"Something's coming," Douglas said, and coughed voraciously.

"I know," Henry said. "It's Walter. But he's not alone."

"_What?"_ Eileen nearly shrieked.

"Metalhead. _Nyub-dir_...with him. Makers of the End."

Douglas shook his head. "I don't know where you get this stuff, kid..."

"The horsemen of the void. But that's not all they are--they're a part of Walter."

"He really _is _like a God, isn't he?" Eileen said.

"As close to a God as we'll ever know," Henry said.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"In a way, I guess he _is_ the void," Henry explained. "I don't know how that can be, but...well, it all made perfect sense when she explained it to me."

"But how?" Eileen asked, shuffling to keep Henry's pace. Douglas didn't seem concerned with moving at all; the toes of his boots dragged twin trenches in the mud. "How can _anyone_ be that powerful?"

"Maybe he never did actually _become_ that way," Henry said. "Maybe he was that way from the start. Maybe he's always been something more than us. Who can say? We'll never know for sure."

"I guess so," Eileen conceded. "Look, up ahead!"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_KILL._

_KILL._

_KILL._

_KILL._

_KILL._

_KILL._

_KILL._

_KILL_

_REND  
TEAR_

_DESTROY_

_RAPE_

_MURDER_

_HATE_

_HATE_

_I HATE HIM_

_I HATE HIM_

_I HATE HER_

_I HATE THEM  
I HATE THEM  
I WILL KILL THEM  
I WILL KILL THEM_

_I WILL KILL THEM ALL!!!_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_You have to hurry!_

"I'm going," Henry said, trying to ignore the explosions in his chest, set off by each breath he took. "I'm going as fast as I can!"

"So am I!" Eileen squealed. "I'm getting tired, too. I hope that door goes somewhere!"

_He's coming!_

"I know! But telling me is going to let me run any faster!"

_Time and space have not been kind to him. He is consumed with rage._

"I know," Henry repeated. "I can feel it. It's like a radio signal I can pick up with my mind."

"Oh, no," Eileen said, shuddering. She, too, seemed to be picking up Walter's vibe. "What _is_ that?"

"It's him," Douglas said.

Behind them, echoing from far down the hallway: _"AAAAAAAAAAAAUUGH!"_

Henry and Eileen met each other's eyes, Henry's full of determination, Eileen's mixed with a pinch of terror.

Henry and Eileen let go of Douglas, allowing him to rest against the wall of the tunnel. The detective leaned his head backward, gasping for breath; the front of his shirt had become deeply stained with red. Henry didn't know how much longer he would last.

"Here," Henry said, stopping before the massive metal double-doors that now blocked their way. Surely, by now they must have passed the place where he'd awoken with Eileen earlier; he didn't remember passing through a second door on the way in.

"Oh, no," Eileen wailed.

"Eileen," Henry said, approaching the handle on the left-hand door--a two-foot-high behemoth of a thing--and gripping it. "Help me pull it!"

"Right," she said, and joined him. They pulled once...twice...three times...

Nothing.  
"It's not moving!" Eileen shrieked, her voice as shrill as ever. Henry and Douglas both cringed at the sound.

"Pull harder," Henry said, trying to remain calm. "Come on!"

From a ways down in the tunnel, the wet smacking of mud became audible...but it sounded like so much more than mere footsteps in the soft ground; it sounded like a million footsteps, a million legs, a million _somethings._

Eileen didn't have to be told twice; she pulled harder than Henry that time, and the door finally began to creak open. Beyond, a massive, metallic platform spread out before them. From the platform, a huge, wide hallway extended straight ahead, off into darkness. The right-hand wall broke off and formed another hallway, this one leading up; a quick consultation of the map determined that this upper-traveling hallway was the sure bet.

"I...don't...like...this," Douglas choked, as Henry and Eileen reassured their grasp on him and toted him through the metal doors. He was walking with them now; there was that to be thankful for...though he knew better than to interpret it as a sign that Douglas was getting better. As things were, his condition would only worsen.

"Great," Henry said. "I think we're almost out."

_It's at the top. It's near you!_

"Walter? Already?"

_No!_ _The outside! You just have to climb that tunnel. But you must hurry--Walter is--_

As if to emphasize that point, Henry felt his head begin to swim; it was that feeling he'd had in the void earlier, right around the time of his throwdown with Walter.

It was as she'd said; Walter was chasing them, but it felt as if that violet-black vortex _itself, _that mass of raw emptiness, was chasing after them. She'd said Walter _was_ the void, hadn't she? What had she called it--_Nyub-deer_?

And if it had a name...did that mean it was _alive?_

"Oh," Eileen said, leaning forward, "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Just a little farther," Henry said. "Come on, we're so close!"

That was enough to get her a little farther, but then she stopped, pulled away from Douglas...and vomited profusely all over the floor to the left. It was all she could do to hold her hair out of the way of the splatter.

"Eileen, _come on!_" Henry cried out, straining under the weight of Douglas' near-limp form. "I think Douglas is slipping out!"

Eileen shook her head, wiped her mouth with one arm, and then slipped the other one back around Douglas. "I'm sorry...I just...that feeling, it's so nasty. That...it came out of nowhere."

"That's what the void feels like."

"Well, I hate the void."

"Good. Let's leave it."

Douglas moaned out loud.

"He's losing it," Eileen said.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CLOSE_

_UNFAMILIAR_

_CLOSE_

_SO UNFAMILIAR_

_SO CLOSE_

_TOO UNFAMILIAR_

_CLOSER_

_DON'T KNOW_

_CLOSER_

_UNKNOWN_

_VERY CLOSE_

_WANT_

_WANT TO_

_WANT TO KILL_

_WANT TO KILL  
WANT TO DESTROY_

_WANT TO_

_WANT TO END_

_KILL_

_DIE  
KILL_

_DIE  
DIE  
KILL_

_DIE_

_**FOREVER**_

_**FOREVER**_

_**FOREVER**_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were almost to the top. Almost...just a little bit farther. A good thing, too--the fire in his chest was growing stronger still, and on top of that, he could already feel his connection with The Visitor slipping away.

_Now!_ she said to him across a vast mental distance._ Go--_

"Let's go!" Henry said, and gathered all of his strength for one last mad dash--a difficult task with more than fifty percent of the detective's weight bearing on his shoulder.

"I can't," Eileen pleaded. "I can't go any faster!"

"Well, go as fast as you can!"

"He's too...heavy!"

The tremor came up on them too quick to expect; the three of them tumbled onto the ground face-first. Eileen screamed; Henry shouted; Douglas lay motionless, closer to death than ever before.

"Damn it," Henry said for the umpteenth time, prying himself up off of the ground. "Eileen! Get Douglas!" He flipped himself onto his feet, facing the detective, and was pleasantly surprised to see that she was already lifting him back up. Perhaps he'd underestimated her?  
_Whatever,_ he thought, joining her effort. _Later._ And with that, they were back on the move.

_I can't wait any longer,_ the Visitor told him. _I wish you the best. Goodbye._

"She's going," Henry relayed.

"Who's going?"

"The Visitor. She's going to pull him in."

"But--"

"She says goodbye."

Eileen's face reflected the potential victory Henry felt in his heart...but also the vast sense of loss, the incomprehensible sadness, at the thought of everyone who had been lost in this night.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "We're going to make it by a mile."

And they did make it, though not quite by a mile; moments later, the light of the morning sun shone down upon them, reflected from the body of water before them like a shining ray of hope.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**FOREVER**__  
__**FOREVER**__  
__**FOREVER**__  
__**FOREVER**__  
__**FOREVER**__  
__**FOREVER**__  
COME BACK_

_**FOREVER**__  
COME BACK_

_**FOREVER**__  
COME BACK_

_**FOREVER**__  
KILL_

_**FOREVER**__  
KILL_

_**FOREVER**__  
KILL_

_**FOREVER**__  
STAY_

_**FOREVER**__  
STAY_

_**FOREVER**__  
DIE_

_**FOREVER**__  
DIE_

_**FOREVER**_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Thank you again, for all you've done._

_I'm sorry to have troubled you all. I'm in your debt forever now._

_But I..._

_There is one..._

_More..._

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry turned back, not daring to re-enter the forbidden realm beneath the cliffside but all the same possessed of a desire to _know,_ to _see,_ to _understand._ He knew it would be the single biggest mistake of his life--for surely, what he saw in those few moments would follow him to his deathbed, every little unsavory detail--but on the other hand, he felt that he wouldn't be truly fulfilling his role as the Receiver of Wisdom unless he saw this through to the very end. And, in a way, it actually felt sort of liberating to know; at least then his enemy would be memory, a thing he could learn to overcome, and not his own imagination, which would change and adapt across time like an efficient predator.

When he turned back, he could see very clearly down the shaft, back into the Otherworld, for a long way. Buried in the shadows at the very back--and extricating itself thereof rather quickly--was a wide, long shape, defined by seemingly infinite rough edges and irregular angles. The figure became gradually more visible as it pulled itself from the shadows, crawling, clawing, lashing out blindly, seeking vengeance, and Henry was soon able to see what it looked like--though, to say it actually looked like any one thing would have been a bit of a stretch. Its form was in constant flux, seeming to resemble an avian predator at first--coated with reddish-brown armor from head to toe, a beak sharpened beyond possibility protruding from its fearsome head--and then a storybook devil of sorts. Its wormlike midsection bore the swirling visage of what looked like a child's drawing of a devil, its grin--so sinister as to seem comical, or perhaps the other way around--accentuated with exaggerated, jagged fangs. The rest of its body stretched far down into the Otherworld, perhaps too large to fit into the tunnel, and the only other thing that was visible from where Henry stood was a series of arms about halfway down the visible length of its body, all wrapped around the same tyrannical polearm at differing lengths: a horrible-looking implement, dull and crooked with disuse, with a curve to it that was nonetheless almost luxurious; it looked worthy of a resting place behind a velvet rope in a world history museum somewhere.

_Nyub-dir_'s size was in constant flux, as well--one moment it seemed to fit snugly into the cavernous tunnel, and the next it seemed as if it would stretch the walls outward until they burst. Henry could see how such a thing could be joined with the void that would one day end the universe; could see quite easily.

As it came closer, Henry realized he could detect the run of its thoughts

_**(FOREVER)**_

_**FOREVER)**_

_**FOREVER)**_

and he felt his stomach begin to spasm, as if to make a grand escape from his body. He leaned over and

_**FOREVER)**_

clutched his stomach, stifling a gag reflex, and felt his heart skip a beat. For just a moment, right there, he was sure

_(DIE)_

that his heart had stopped--that he was having a heart attack--but

_(DIE)_

the moment passed so quickly that he would later recall only fog, and no actual pain at all._  
(KILL)_

_(RECEIVER)_

_(NO)_

_(STOP!)_

_Now we can finally rest...daddy..._

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A death-begrudging scream--certainly not originating from something of this world--echoes from the deepest regions of the underworld of Silent Hill. The tremors increase to a near-intolerable level; several houses in the South Vale area collapse into themselves, while others disappear into newly-formed sinkholes in their foundations. Fissures spread all across the concrete on East Nathan Avenue, spiking the very earth several feet up into the air in some places, making things very difficult for would-be travelers planning to use that road. The Lakeview Hotel expels a final stubborn breath and then descends into a bottomless hole in the earth, forever lost; Brookhaven Hospital sighs vacantly as its patient wing gives way to a newly-formed sinkhole beneath what was once its swimming pool; several houses and non-residential buildings all along the South Vale district crumble, collapse, or distort.

Old Silent Hill--the mostly-defunct residential district, once a budding tourist attraction--begins to twist and converge in on itself. The concrete in several places along the streets suddenly gives way, its foundation seemingly vanished right out from under it. Several buildings implode, leaving desolation and debris far and wide across several blocks; clouds of dust fill the streets, and visibility is none.

When all is said and done, a strange thing is visible, should one be looking down from above: the terrain now unanimously declines toward a single point, just south of the shore of Silent Hill's own Lake Toluca--the very cavern from which Henry and company have just emerged--as if called there by a force greater than that which created it. As if something from the very back of beyond is reaching out with the last of its strength, desperate pulling at anything it can drag out there with it.

And then, as instantaneously as everything had begun, the hills are once again silent.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning sun, shining brilliantly across the surface of Lake Toluca, was more beautiful to Henry and Eileen at that moment than it had ever been in either of their lives, despite the very idea's inherent cheesiness; it was a welcome respite from the suffocating darkness below. It felt like it'd been years since either of them had actually _seen_ the sun. Henry wasn't entirely sure he'd expected to ever see it again at all.

Before them was a wide shoreline, stretching all the way to the horizon on the east--broken only by the overlook several miles down the way--and meeting the resort district's ferry dock on the west side. Also to the west, a scenic path stretched up the way, hugging the cliff from which they had emerged--presumably extending up to the town's street system. Beyond the pass, the shore casually blended into a dense, wooded area, navigated by a meager unpaved hiking trail.

"Henry," Eileen gasped.

"I know."

"No," she said, irritable. "It's Douglas. I think...I think he's..."

Henry didn't answer; he only turned towards his fallen companion. "Lay him down."

Eileen obliged, stretching him gently across the dirt floor. She listened for his heartbeat and found none.

Henry knelt before him, feeling his pulse. There was none, faint or otherwise.

"Henry, it's too late," she said, finally succumbing to her tears. "He's..."

"No," Henry said, feeling his throat swelling up.

"Henry," Eileen repeated. "I think--"

Douglas stirred.

Henry and Eileen froze, watching with bated breath.

He fidgeted...grimaced...and opened his eyes.

"_Douglas!_" Henry and Eileen cried in unison.

Douglas would not speak, however; that seemed beyond his ability. He only looked on, the very life behind his eyes growing weak.

He didn't have much time.

"We have to get him somewhere," Eileen said. "And fast."

"We don't have a car," Henry said. "Douglas' is still wherever he parked it last. I think it was in front of the Museum." He threw his hands up in the air, bringing them down immediately after when pain flared up in his chest again.

"You were shot," Eileen stated with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

"Walter," Henry said, cringing. "It's not...it's not that bad."

"You're a horrible liar."

"I'll live," he said, and that was true. He could still breathe, sort of...it just hurt like all the hell in the Bible. Walter's aim must have been slightly off, or something. All the same, he thought it would be a good idea to try and avoid any more serious conflict until he could get to a functioning hospital.

"But you need help," Eileen said...and hesitated.

"What?" Henry asked, starting to feel dizzy already. Perhaps it was the excitement of the whole deal...or perhaps it was the bullet in his chest...or maybe it was all of those punches catching up with him at once...or, hell, it could be that the so-called "Ifrit" had poisoned him with its nails, or claws, or whatever. Too many factors to think about.

"Can't you hear that?" Eileen whispered.

"Hear _what?"_ he asked, his voice maintaining a cool tone in spite of his agitation.

"It's a siren," she said, turning towards him. "Can't you hear it? It's a _siren!_"

Henry felt a sick feeling welling in his gut. Call it intuition...but he hadn't been having a lot of luck with sirens, lately. The last one he could remember was the sound of the ambulance coming to cart Eileen away from the scene of what could very well have been Henry's own murder, if not for the man now lying near-dead beside him.

"Stay here with him," Eileen said. "I'll be right back."

"No," Henry said, turning too quickly and regretting it.

"Don't move," Eileen said, throwing her hands up in front of her. "You'll just hurt yourself. I promise, I'll be right back. It might be help."

"It might _not _be," Henry said.

"What do we have to lose? If we wait here, and it _is _help, and they leave without us, he's as good as dead, anyway. And you aren't looking too good, yourself."

"But--"

"I'll be right back," Eileen said, and despite his frantic calls to her, she took off running towards the path that would presumably take her up to the street level.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When officer Hamilton saw Eileen trudging up from around the overlook footpath and towards the vehicle, he reached over and tugged on his partner's jacket.

"Bo!"

Officer Wharton ignored him, waving a hand of dismissal in his general direction; all of his attention was focused on the cellular phone resting between his left shoulder and ear. "Yeah, honey, I know! It's the damndest thing, though--as soon as we came in, all our stuff went out o'whack. There was this earthquake, and--"

"Bo," Hamilton whispered, patting him again.

Wharton shot him an angry look and waved a hand at him in the classic gesture of _Shush-ie! _"Yeah--no, yeah, that was just Richie. Seriously, though..."

Hamilton rolled his eyes and exited the vehicle, waving one hand up in the air.

"Hey," Eileen said, out of breath.

"Hey!" Hamilton called, clearly surprised. "Another person!"

Inside the vehicle, Wharton seemed to respond to Hamilton's exclamation. He frantically spoke into his cellphone, hung up, and joined Hamilton outside the car.

"Hey," Eileen said to Wharton.

"Holy crap," Wharton said. "I was beginning to think this place was completely empty. We haven't seen a single living human being all night--this place is a ghost town!"

"Make that, we haven't seen a living _anything,_" Hamilton said, shuddering.

"What do you mean?" Eileen asked, feeling urgent but trying to remain calm; if she allowed herself to speak or move too quickly, she thought she might just enter full-blown panic mode.

"We'll tell you later," Wharton said, shaking his head. "We're actually on a stakeout, but in light of the circumstances, might you wanna hang with us for a little? By the way, I'm Officer Bo Wharton, and this is my partner, Richard Hamilton. Ashfield Police Department."

Eileen shook her head. "I'm not alone. I have friends with me."

"Really?" Hamilton spoke up, eyes wide. Wharton frowned, seeming to regard his partner with distaste. "Um, where?"

"Down near the shore," she said, pointing. "They've both been shot. There was...there was a really bad incident, you see..."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Doug! Man, you alright?"

Wharton leaned over the semi-conscious detective, patting him on the back, trying to get him to stay awake. "Man, she was telling the truth. Look at these!"

Hamilton stared wide-eyed at the detective everyone had been so intimidated by back in Ashfield, way back when. It was hard to think that it was even the same person; he looked a thousand years older. And--though he knew it wasn't possible, it had to be the light playing tricks on him--his hair looked a bit more decrepit shade of gray than it had the last time they'd spoken.

"Come on," Wharton said, motioning with his hands. "Help me get him up to the car. I got a first aid kid in the back, maybe we can hold him until the ambulance gets here." He pronounced _ambulance _without the 'u,' so it came out _amb'lance._

"Sure thing," Eileen said, and went around to the detective's shoulders, lifting with her good hand and balancing his weight on her other arm.

"You," Douglas wheezed.

"Don't talk," Wharton said. "You've been shot in the lung. _Both_ lungs."

"I...know," Douglas pressed on. "You...followed us."

Hamilton looked at Wharton, questioning.

Wharton frowned. "How'd you know?"

"You...found us...too...easy."

"Damn," Hamilton said, impressed.

Wharton shot him a killer look.

Hamilton was quiet.

"Whose...orders?" Douglas rasped.

"You just stop talking right now, mister," Wharton said. "We'll talk when we get you to a hospital. We gotta haul ass, you know."

Meanwhile, Hamilton had diverged from the rest of them; he was standing in front of a gaping black hole in the side of the cliff opposite the lakeshore, peering in with all-too-visible curiosity. There didn't seem to be _anything_ in there. But...

"I wouldn't mess with that if I were you," Henry called, still lying against the cliffside a good distance away.

"Huh?" Hamilton said, startled, and turned to Henry. "Hey...it's _him!_"

Wharton looked up. "What do you--" When he saw Henry, his face grew cold.

"He's...alright," Douglas said; his voice was growing weaker by the minute.

Wharton decided then that they would have to go to Pleasant River to treat Douglas; he wouldn't last half the way if they made the drive to Ashfield.

"You sure, detective?" Hamilton asked, dubious. "I mean, we didn't get no official word or nothin', but I heard from somebody up there at the PD that somebody sent a transmission saying Sullivan and that Townshend guy made a break for it."

"That wasn't you, was it?" Wharton asked.

Douglas nodded. "Yeah. Had a...a problem. Walter...he tried...he took Herring's gun...tried to...shoot...we got him...called for backup...but Walter...Walter got him...Henry...he...Henry saved...saved us..."

"Herring?" Wharton said. "You sayin' he shot _Herring?_ _John Phillip_ Herring?"

Douglas nodded, unable to speak any more.

"Please, stop!" Eileen shouted. "He can't talk! Can't you see it hurts him to talk?"

Wharton flushed with red. "Oh, damn, I'm sorry. Look, let's get you up and outta here, alright?"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was no time to call an ambulance, so Wharton immediately went to work cleaning Douglas' wounds with antiseptic, while Hamilton drove the vehicle. Henry sat in the back with Douglas and Wharton, and Eileen had the passenger seat.

"Pretty weird stuff out here in the boonies, eh?" Hamilton asked Eileen, eliciting only a vacant stare. "On the way into town, we come by this...this graveyard, I guess ya'd call it. It was really weird; a big clearing with a bunch 'a animals, just layin' there dead by the side of the road. All layin' around this one big tree, yeah? Like they was set there, or somethin'."

Eileen seemed interested, for her eyes locked onto his. He had to fight to keep his eye on the road as they took the next corner.

"Can't say for the life of me what it was, though. They weren't chopped up or nothin', nah, they was just layin' there. Gosh, _hundreds_ of 'em."

"Knock it off," Wharton said.

Hamilton met his partner's gaze in the rearview mirror, seemed about to say something sharp...but then backed out, probably deciding that this was not a good time to challenge the role of He Who Wears The Pants In The Relationship.

The rest of the drive was relatively quiet; Eileen didn't speak any more, despite several attempts by Hamilton to coax her into doing so...but time and again, she found her mind wandering back to the subject of the dead animals. It _was_ weird; not moreso than anything else she'd seen, but definitely weird--mostly because it didn't seem related to anything else they'd experienced. It was like an extra piece of the puzzle, after all the other ones had been put in their proper place...perhaps a piece of another puzzle altogether.

_Weird,_ she pondered. _I wonder what it means?_

No matter; she would probably never know. It could simply have been a side-effect of Walter's final dying breath (though that didn't explain why she, Henry and Douglas, as well as the two officers, were still alive), or it could have been something orchestrated by James or Walter long before...or it could be something else, entirely. It was hard to say; already, the events of the past night were beginning to feel surreal, dreamlike; a few days from now, it would probably feel like a story she'd read somewhere, a faded memory.

Maybe one day, she would wonder if it had ever happened at all?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They reached Pleasant River no more than thirty minutes later, driving at full speed. A few minutes before they arrived, Wharton had phoned Pleasant River Sacred Heart Hospital and notified them of the situation, so when they pulled to a stop in front of the building, a team of paramedics was waiting. The paramedics loaded Douglas onto a stretcher and wheeled him up the ramp and into the building; Eileen, Henry, and the two officers waited in the emergency room while the staff saw to his less serious (but serious nonetheless) wounds.

Eileen was told she would have to wait in the lobby. Hamilton and Wharton opted to go over to the main building and get something to eat ("My stomach's in a knot, I tell ya," Hamilton explained), and offered to get something for Eileen. She kindly declined.

The TV in the emergency room was on, but she didn't feel like watching. It was stupid, but she actually felt sort of insulted by the presence of a TV in such a place--nothing but commercials on it now, anyway. Who wanted to learn about the Best Foot Powder In The West when a loved one might be dying in the next room?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three hours later, a nurse came out looking for Eileen. The nurse--Rachael, the same one she'd had the afternoon prior, after being shot--approached her with a wary eye.

"Hi," Eileen said, not really surprised.

"We've been seeing a lot of you, lately," Rachael said sternly.

"I know."

"Your friend is ready to see you, if you like."

"Henry?"

"He's on a lot of painkillers at the moment, so he might be a little woozy--that poison in his system was pretty nasty. We don't see stuff that strong around here very often--it's amazing he's even alive at all."

"Where is he?"  
"Come on, I'll show you."

"What about Douglas?" she asked, climbing to her feet. All at once, she was beginning to feel relieved--relieved that Henry had lived, relieved that her horrible task in Silent Hill was complete...relieved to finally be able to rest.

"The other one?"

"Yes," Eileen said curtly, "'the other one.'"

Rachael hesitated. "I...I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Just tell me."

"He's critical at the moment, but...um, well, they said he might be upgraded to stable before noon. Once they get the bullets out, he should start getting better--you should thank those officers, they did a bang-up job of cleaning him up. If they hadn't...well, who knows?"

"Yeah," Eileen mumbled. "Who knows?"  
"Excuse me?" Rachael asked, clearly uncomfortable.

_Like you know what uncomfortable is,_ Eileen thought, and fought the urge to say. "Nothing, I was just talking to myself."

"Oh," Rachael sighed. "Well, if you want to see Mr., ah, Henry, then he's right down this hall..."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eileen was overcome with an obscene sense of deja-vu when she entered the room--Room 203, the same room she'd occupied on both of her earlier visits and, eerily enough, the inverse of Room 302--and saw Henry lying in the bed in the center, staring at her through a fog of drug-induced euphoria. She approached the bed, placing her hands on the railing...and jerked her right hand away suddenly, feeling pain in it. She'd almost forgotten that it was still broken. She looked down at it, remembering that it had been twisted and broken quite badly during her drive into Silent Hill...and wasn't too surprised to see that it had almost completely mended.

"Hey," Henry mumbled, startling her as he stirred slightly in the bed.

"Hey," Eileen said, speaking softly, and took his hand in her good one. She felt him squeeze it fairly hard, and was reassured. "You made it."

"Yeah," Henry said, sounding distant. "I'm really tired, though."

"That'll pass," Eileen said. "You get some rest."

"Yeah," he agreed. And then, he said three words that shocked her to the very core: "_I love you_."

She hesitated, felt her grip weaken. "Wha...what?"

"...love you," he repeated, his voice slurred.

She didn't know if she should attribute his claim to the drugs, or... "Are you...are you serious?"  
"Yeah," he said, mumbling. "I just...you know...I couldn't say it before. I was afraid of what you might think, you know?"

"We slept together already," she exclaimed. "I don't think 'I love you' is too far out after that, do you?"

He didn't respond to her.

_Must've finally clonked out._

Maybe it _had_ been the drugs...

After that, there weren't any more words to be spoken; they just stayed there that way for a long time, not speaking, not moving, until she was sure he'd gone to sleep. When she turned around, she saw Rachael standing in the doorway, hands clasped nervously at her waist.

But she wasn't quite ready to leave, not yet...before she went, Eileen carefully leaned down and whispered four words into Henry's ear. She knew he wouldn't hear them now, but perhaps he would remember them later. And even if he didn't, she could always just say them again--as difficult as she found them, once they were out, she knew they would come easier the next time.

_I love you, too._

END OF CHAPTER 37


	38. Epilogue: Nowhere Bound

**Chapter 38**

**Epilogue: Nowhere Bound**

_"The Southern Aurora was late again_

_As I waited at central to take you home_

_Winking spinning sparkling lights on our flat earth_

_You talk about the old groundling ways..._

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took six days for the weather to become notable enough to worry about.

The weather report had spoken of the unusual snowfall that had taken place over the last several days, claiming that it would be clearing up within the week. However, a full week later, the skies over Ashfield still insisted on turbulent winds and a chill factor to beat any that Ashfield had ever seen. Things had only intensified with time, perhaps the result of some great and terrible thing's dying breath, a thing trying one last time to lash out and cause as much damage as possible.

It was 20 degrees below zero.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry shivered.

He sat on the couch in his apartment once again, curled up on its center cushion, feet tucked beneath him and blanket shrouded around him. He'd just been released from the hospital two nights prior; as amazing as it had sounded even to him, Walter's bullet had barely grazed his lung. There had been some abrasion damage, but no puncture wound to be seen. The staff at St. Jerome's had determined that an unfamiliar toxin had been responsible for his breathing problems--so unusual was the toxin, in fact, that Henry's doctor, Melvin Coolidge, M.D., had been interrogated by a Federal Agent mere hours after the document reporting its presence had been reported, having been inadvertently discovered by the Department of Homeland Security.

All in all, it was amazing for Henry to be alive this cold winter morning. It was amazing that _any _of them were still alive.

Already, the events of that night had grown faint, foggy--perhaps it was because the toxin had affected his memory, sent those last terrifying moments into a dreamlike blur, remerging only in the darkest of nightmares. Perhaps it was because the very nature of the conflict beneath the town, the distortion of time and space, had interfered with the storage of his memory. Or perhaps it had all been a strange, super-realistic kind of dream, taking place on another plane of reality altogether, much like the events in this very room, oh so long ago.

Strange...his original clash with the likes of Walter had taken place less than two weeks ago, yet the memories had already vacated to the farthest reaches of his mind; it seemed as if years had passed. Perhaps that, too, was a side-effect of the perpetual distortion that took place in that other world? He would never know. And for once, he was content with that.

He took a slow, shuddering breath; better he may be, but still a far cry from well. He would be bedridden for at least another week, or in the worst-case scenario, a month. The poison had been neutralized and the bullets removed, but there was always the chance of recurring complication, be it from the actual injury or from one of the countless countermeasure operations conducted thereafter. He would have to be wary of any changes in his chemistry, small or great.

But even so...knowing all that he had gone through in the past two weeks, it felt absolutely _thrilling_ to be alive. This feeling he had now, it was like the high-production-value Hollywood sequel to the one he'd had upon escaping from Walter's original Otherworld concoction; like winning the lottery twice.

On the TV, the weatherman read out the forecast for the upcoming week; according to their telemetry, the next four days would be sunny with clear skies, but so far this week, all the reports had been wrong. It was a meteorological anomaly--though the conditions for perfect weather seemed to exist in the atmosphere, it continued to snow. Henry didn't know whether or not to feel threatened by that; he thought he could sense the finger of a greater being--sinister, mindless with rage--probing through the works, furiously seeking a self-destruct button. Could it really be...could Walter still...?

_No,_ Henry asserted. _He's dead this time--as dead as he can be, anyway. I'm sure of it. He won't be bothering us anymore._

But still...

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_Where the suburbs summer play in wrinkled sand_

_And never never never neverland_

_I get home I see them, I drive down_

_I look out, I see those lines and lines and lines of swell and smiles_

_Coolangatta, what's the matter?_

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At one o'clock that afternoon, a brown sedan pulled into the driveway of a well-to-do-looking house in the residential district of South Ashfield. The two-story residence appeared to have been recently painted; the central woodwork had been done over with a soothing robin's-egg-blue, the doors and windowpanes a soft and just-as-soothing white.

The detective observed all of this with a melancholy sort of deja-vu as he killed the engine and carefully removed himself from the sedan, taking care not to aggravate his bullet wounds. He had been shot in three places, but the damage had only been severe in one--the right lung. There had been a massive reconstructive surgery around the site of the wound, with a recovery period of almost a full week before he'd been permitted to leave the hospital. The doctor had told him that six days was a phenomenal recovery time for such a surgery; most patients took months to recover from that level of intrusion.

Douglas made his way up the slippery driveway, his walking shoes every-so-often sliding on the frosty tar. He tried his best not to fall down--the last thing he needed was to be rushed to the hospital here and now, less than an hour after his dismissal.

At last, he made it to the front porch--a long and narrow concrete-paved thing, marked on the far end by a calm little swinging bench and bordered with a four-foot-high wooden rail. Not too far to the right of the bench was a screen door; it was this door before which the detective now stood, raising his hand and rapping gently on the wooden frame.

At first there was nothing, which was what he'd expected; he hadn't been able to tell if anyone was home because the garage door was shut, but he'd figured the house was probably empty--Fran worked a lot during the week, or at least she had when he'd known her, and it was the middle of a weekday. No reason for her to be home, really.

But then, from beyond the door, footsteps. And a voice.

"_Just wait,"_ the high, muffled voice pleaded.

A dog barked.

_"Shut up,"_ the same voice hissed.

There was a click, and then the wooden door opened; a white, middle-aged, blonde-haired woman stood in the threshold. She wore a blue bathrobe of the same shade as the house itself and cradled a small, scruffy white beagle--surely no more than a year old--in her arms. She opened her mouth to speak, saw the detective, and seemed to choke on whatever words she'd had at the ready.

"Fran," Douglas rasped.

"It's you," she said, holding onto the dog a little tighter.

The dog growled under its breath, eyeing the detective with obvious malice; Fran hushed it by rocking it gently and rubbing its forehead.

"Why are you here?" she asked him, her eyes bold and--he was sad to see--afraid. "Why did you come back?"

"Fran, there's something I need to tell you."

She seemed confused...but then, realization dawned on her face. "Is this about...John?"

"Is Nina here?"

"She's asleep upstairs. Why, what happened?"

"I'm...I'm sorry."

Fran regarded him with wide eyes, full of fear. "Did something happen?"

"There was an incident," Douglas said, hanging his head. His instinct was trying to pry him away from her, but he knew he had to face her when he said the words. "A man...this guy had a rifle. John saw it, and he tried to warn us, but--"

Fran's face had sunk; she looked fifteen years older in a second.

"He was killed," Douglas said. "If he hadn't...if he hadn't said anything, then I wouldn't be standing here talking to you now."

"I see," she said, stone cold.

"I thought you should know," he said. "He--"

"Don't," she interrupted. "I don't want to hear it again."

"But it's true," Douglas said. "He didn't talk about being at home much, but he did. He loved you guys a lot."

"Maybe he did," she said. "But that's in the past, now. Things are different."

"You're right about that," Douglas said. "Things _are _different. And they will be, forever."

She looked confused.

"I don't want to trouble you anymore," Douglas said, nodding in her direction as he turned away. "I'll get lost now. Tell Nina I said hey, will you?"

Fran didn't answer.

"I'm sorry for what happened," he said, and started back down the driveway, crossing the lawn.

She watched him go, feeling like she needed to say something,_ anything _at all...but no words would come. It was impossible to describe the sensation which filled her heart at that moment: John Phillip Herring was gone. He'd been survived by a wife and a young daughter, victims of that timeless beast, the divorce. On the one hand, she felt liberated...but on the other, there was now this new hole in her life, this thing which could never be filled. Because, no matter how much she tried to deny it, deep down, she really _did_ still love him. And she knew he'd felt the same way about her. Nina loved him, too.

But now he was gone.

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Douglas hadn't cried in fourty-three years, and he wouldn't now. However, he would feel the greatest despair he would ever know as he drove back to his two-bedroom home on the southern edge of Ashfield, to his only family--a collapsible bed, a kitchen set, and a portable TV with the worst reception this side of the Pacific Ocean. He had time to mull over everything that was gone now, everything he'd had in the palm of his hand only weeks ago; he had time to think about everything that had changed--every_one_ that had changed--and all the things that could never be the same. He had time to think about how badly he'd missed the train with Heather, and about where she must be now, in the thrall of whatever lay beyond this world. He had time to think about everything, about nothing, and all the things in between; he had lost a son once, many years ago, in a bank robbery, and he had blamed himself then. Now he had lost what amounted to a daughter, as well, and for this he found he could only blame himself as well.

He wouldn't commit suicide--he wasn't quite that far up the creek--but he would spend lonely nights from here on out lying wide awake, wondering what awaited him at the end of this long road. In the many sleepless nights to come, he would find himself wondering how he planned to make it through the rest of his life without allowing himself to succumb to this overwhelming despair. Henry and Eileen were the only two living humans in the world who would be able to relate to him, and they had their own lives, their own problems; he wouldn't--_couldn't_--allow himself to burden them with his own. Now that their paths had split once again, he was on his own, just as he had been before. Except now, even Herring was gone--his only equal in all of the Ashfield Police department, his only reprieve from the harsh world of the next generation.

For the next step on this harsh road, he would have to find something to live for. He would have to find something he could feel for, something to drive him through each day in spite of his losses. With this in mind, he pulled onto the curb and parked in front of the building closest to him on the left side of the street--a charming little food joint with the timeless title of The Lamb.

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He came in just as he had a week before, listening as the wind chime over the door clattered noisily against the glass paneling, and approached the bar. His walking shoes creaked across the wooden floor, and when he sat down on the nearest available bar stool--next to a younger but still getting-on gent in a flannel overshirt and faded jeans--it squeaked beneath his weight, crying for oil.

The Lamb was not a busy establishment even in the mid-afternoon lunch hour; the man sitting beside him was one of only two other solicitors. The other, a little old black woman who seemed like the type to have been coming here for ages (and probably solely for nostalgic value), sat in a booth against the far right-hand end of the room, against a picture window that offered a glorious view of the dirty alley between the Lamb and its next-door neighbor. Eventually, after giving him several minutes to look around and familiarize himself with the join once again, a balding black man who looked to be in his mid-fourties emerged from the room behind the counter, wearing a white chef's apron. He eyed Douglas, sensing a potential customer. "Sorry, man--can I help you?"

"Actually, yeah," Douglas said, straining to sound somewhat content. "I was wondering...does that other girl still work here? You know, I think her name was Katherine?"

The man to Douglas' right seemed piqued by the mention of Katherine's name; he turned towards the detective. "You serious?"

"Yeah," Douglas responded, not quite confrontational but very much put off. "Why? What's wrong?"  
The guy behind the counter shook his head solemnly. "You mean...you didn't hear?"  
"What?" Douglas asked. Anxious, he slid off the stool and onto his feet. "What happened?"

"There was a robbery," the proprietor said, speaking with a visible trail of melancholy behind his voice. "Money, like always. She give it to him, and he shot her anyway. Point-blank, right in the head. She's dead 'fore you could say, _damn._ Got it all on security."

Douglas felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. At first, he couldn't even speak. "What...when? When did this happen?"

"Just a while ago," the proprietor said, pity creeping into his voice in place of sadness. "Maybe five, six days, I think. Late at night."

He knew it was crazy--it _couldn't _be, it just didn't make _sense,_ and on top of that it simply wasn't _fair_--but he knew, nonetheless, that she had been murdered on the same night he'd left for Silent Hill. Possibly right after he'd walked out the door. Had the attacker seen him, judged him as a threat, decided to wait until he'd gone? Would Katherine still be alive if he had stayed a bit longer?

"Just goes to show ya," the proprietor continued. "This town ain't right. It ain't _been_ right, not since I was a boy. And it's gettin' worse every day."

Douglas understood...he understood very well. It happened to all towns eventually, as they grew and matured and got too big for their underwear--the same thing that happened to people who became famous, to business owners once their work found corporate ground, to bands once they started taking their popularity for granted; they abandoned their families, their old lives, altogether in the interest of moving forward into a future that was certain to bring fortune...yet still uncertain in so many of the ways that mattered.

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_Paradise, it's a surfer's world and flashing lights and real estate_

_One last wave..._

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Eileen set what few items she'd selected from the back of the store--a small rack of beef, a six-pack of beer, two or three bottles of differing types of pepper and spice, and a cheap glass of champaigne--onto the counter, then proceeded to fumble in her pants for her wallet while the clerk, a bored middle-eastern guy with the distinct name of Rico, tended to her purchase and bagged it for her. As soon as she returned to form with her wallet at the ready, Rico unceremoniously declared her total. She obliged, paying him in exact change.

"Weather's pretty nasty," Eileen said conversationally, scooping the bag containing her new possessions off of the counter. "Sort of cold for this time of year, huh?"  
"Yeh," Rico said indifferently.

Eileen shrugged, tipped her head towards him, and started on out the door and into the domain of the elements.

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The drive home was long and lonely; the weather had become so harsh in some places that the road was barely visible, forcing Eileen to slow the pace of the vehicle to a crawling twenty miles per hour. In the denser part of the business district, the tall buildings kept the weather at bay for short intervals, affording a more manageable level of visibility--at one point Eileen was actually able to read a billboard that invited onlookers to attend a book club meeting for some author at the local bookstore, a friendly-looking guy named Hemant who had apparently sold his soul on the internet. He would be available the Next Two Days ONLY! 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.! If Eileen was interested, she would Have To Hurry! because Time was Running Out!

She took a moment to wonder why someone would advertise a _book club_ meeting so urgently.

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The weather was so bad by the time she reached the end of Skiba Ave. that she almost missed the turnoff at Andriano Place; the sign jumped up at her from beyond a curtain of snow, startling her somewhat. She veered suddenly, temporarily vied with the elements for control of her vehicle, and made the turnoff without too much trouble. Andriano Place put her at less than five minutes away from South Ashfield Heights.

Soon, she would be home.

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_Mother..._

Henry stirred, pulled from his sleep by the sound of that voice. A familiar voice...

"Eileen?" he murmured, rolling into a sitting position. The blanket he'd been wrapped in earlier now lay tousled around his ankles. "You home already?"

But there was no answer.

_Probably a dream,_ he thought. _Wasn't Eileen's voice, anyway._

Then whose had it been?

He didn't know...but at least now he _did_ know that he wouldn't have to attribute it to anything supernatural. The crazy stuff was done and over with; now he could get back to watching The Colbert Report on Comedy Central, not worrying about the afterlife or the before-life or the eternal suffering of the universe. All that was becoming like a bad dream...on the one hand, it was almost a shame that it should disappear so quickly. But on the other...perhaps it was better. It was not mortal man's place to know his standing in the grand scheme of things--either because he shouldn't, or because he _couldn't._ Either way, Henry knew he'd be just fine if he went the rest of his life without knowing. After what he'd seen down there...

_What _did _I see down there?_

He couldn't really remember anymore...some kind of creature. A big, scary thing, pulled from a mental patient's worst nightmare. A harpoon...a devil's head...a bird...and something else.

"Whatever," he mumbled, stretching his arms out as he rose to his feet. He felt a strong cramp light up in his left lung, and although he knew it most likely wasn't anything serious, he decided to ease up. Didn't want to take any chances.

At about that time the front door abruptly crashed inward, spilling Eileen into the room. She had two plastic bags cradled in her arms, and she seemed about to lose one of them.

"Hey," Henry said, rushing to her aid, "you should have called me." He scooped the bag out of the air just before it would have fallen.

"You're not well," she scolded him, nonetheless accepting the bag he had rescued. "You're supposed to be in bed, or at least on the couch. Did you finish the Colbert Report already?"

"The whole first season," Henry goaded.

"In two days?" Eileen said, disbelieving, as she hurled the bags up onto the counter and spilled their contents.

"What do you think I've been doing around here, playing with myself?" Henry jeered. It was an unusually perky comment, and it struck Eileen as a little odd.

"You feeling alright?" she asked him, feeling his forehead. "You're a little warm. You should get to bed."

"I'm fine," he said, shuffling weakly towards the fridge. He had to squeeze in behind Eileen to get close enough to open it; it was embedded into the counter right behind where she now stood, putting together her high-end beef dinner. He pried it open and plucked a cold juice drink pouch from inside. "Whatcha making?"

"Dinner," she said. "I was thinking...I figured we could just, you know, hang out tonight."

"What do you mean?" Henry asked, oblivious.

She turned to face him, uncertainty creeping into her face. "Um, well...see, there's something I need to tell you, but...well, let's just say I want you to be sitting down."

"Is it bad?" Henry ripped the straw off of the side of the pouch drink, slid it out of its plastic wrapper, and stabbed it through the soft spot on the top of the pouch.

"No," Eileen said, "not at all!"

"Wow," Henry responded, interrupting his own sentence with a long suck from the juice pouch. "Must be really good, then."

"You'll see," she said coyly, and returned to the rack of beef. She had already worked the plastic wrapping off of it, and she now opened the cabinet beneath the sink to her right and deposited it into the garbage can. "Help me remember that tomorrow's garbage day, alright?"  
"Alright," Henry said, and started back towards the couch.

_He won't remember,_ Eileen thought to herself. _He never does._

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By seven o'clock that night, all was silent in the town of Ashfield. The town itself seemed to have grown weary from the weather; the snow now blanketed much of the town, reflecting what remained of the evening sun back up into the sky in a brilliant shimmer. The sun itself seemed to grow tired; soon it, too, would seek the temporary reprieve of sleep, giving up its outpost at the edge of this hemisphere...and there would be no benevolent celestial entity to watch over the town in the final chapter of this story.

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Henry came out of the bathroom, clothed in a fresh white button-up shirt (long-sleeved, the only way he would wear them) and a faded pair of blue jeans--no socks--and immediately smelled Eileen's dinner project, which he now presumed complete.

"Smells good, huh?" Eileen's voice ebbed from down the hall. "Why don't you come get a look for yourself?"

"Alright," Henry said, his voice slurring ever-so-slightly in reaction to his nighttime medication; he was still getting used to the drowsiness and nausea the medication brought upon him at the slightest effort, even when standing up--he could only hope that Eileen's beef dinner would help with regard to the nausea.

The living area was as black as had been that night in Silent Hill; the only illumination came from a six-pronged candleholder, perfectly centered (as far as Henry could tell, anyway) on the dining area table. In the candle's gentle light, he could see Eileen's smiling--though visibly nervous--face. He remembered her earlier promise, and wondered what news she was about to drop on him.

"Come on," she said impatiently, belying the smooth tone of her voice. "Sit down, already."

"Huh," Henry said, obliging. Impressive setup; she must've worked hard on this. He'd only been in the shower for fifteen minutes--had she done all this in that time? He had to admit that he hadn't really been paying attention; he'd been half-asleep on the couch, watching the Weather Channel for the past few hours.

"I," she started, hesitating. "I, um--"

"What's wrong?" Henry asked, reaching a hand across the table. "Did something happen?"

Eilen shrugged. "Sort of. I mean, yeah, but...well, it's kind of--"  
Henry met her eyes, forcing back his urge to fall asleep. He wanted her to see in his eyes that he was all business now. "You can tell me, whatever it is."

Eileen grinned, obviously somewhat relieved...but she still seemed uneasy. "I've thought about it for the past few days--I never doubted that I was going to tell you, or anything, I just wanted to figure out how--but now...well, I'm worried about how you'll take it."

"Just tell me," Henry said. "That's the only way to find out. It can't be _that_ big, can it?"

"You," Eileen said, stumbling; her heart was racing in her chest, as it had been the night before they'd traveled to Silent Hill, in the room with Henry. "You and I...we're going to...we're going to be..."

Henry saw it in _her_ eyes before she actually said it; his face lit up in response.

Seeing his expression gave Eileen the courage to just spit it out: "You and I are going to be parents."

Henry's eyes widened; his chin would have hit the floor, had the table not been in the way.

"You're not--"  
"No, no," Henry said, gesturing forward with his hands so harshly that he nearly knocked over the plate on which Eileen had set his half of the beef dinner; only narrowly did he avoid sending it crashing into the champaigne glass to the side. "No, not at all! It's...well, it's great! When did you find out?"  
"A few days ago. I went to the doctor's, and...well--"

"Eileen, that's so cool!"

Deep down, Eileen felt a sigh of relief trying to escape. "Wow, you're taking this a lot better than I expected."

"What," Henry said, incredulous. "Did you think I was just going to walk out? I wouldn't do that to you; I love you, Eileen!"

With those words spoken, an awkward, heavy silence permeated the room. For a moment, Henry was afraid he'd set her off (though he didn't know why).

"So you _did _mean it," she whispered. Henry didn't exactly know what she was talking about--wasn't even sure if he'd heard her right--but after a moment, he decided he didn't care. "You know what this means, right?"  
"I don't really want to get married," Eileen blurted, feeling strangely out of context.

"What?" Henry said. "Why not?"

"I just don't believe in marriage," she said. "I never have. It's not that I have anything against it, or anything...I just...well, I guess it feels kind of like jumping on the bandwagon. What we have...I feel like what we have is more special than that."

"Eileen..."

"Are you okay with that?"  
"Well," Henry said, blinking harshly--his brain seemed to be trying to escape through his eye sockets, just from the shock of these last few moments--"let's not get too worked up about anything just now. We'll talk about the details later. For now..." he raised his champaigne glass across the table. "Let's have a toast, shall we?"  
Eileen looked confused. "To what?"

"To us," Henry said.

"You're so cliche," Eileen said, giggling.

"_Love_ is a cliche," Henry responded, with a chuckle of his own to boot.

"Well," Eileen said, raising her own glass, "here's to the most awesome cliche ever to grace the pages of a crappy Nora Roberts book."

And with that, their glasses rang out with a harmony almost as sweet as theirs...and the night was truly perfect.

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_Ahhh, get up and run_

_'Cause there's a beach lies quiet near the open sea_

_And a carpark lay streched out where the bindis used to be..._

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The end of the story draws near, my friends, and I thank you for having come this far to learn the truth. But there is one last thread to be followed; it protrudes from the sand quite conspicuously. It is our duty to follow it to its end. Won't you come and see what awaits at that end, that end which is not so far at all anymore?

There is but one last setting, one last story, one last run. Come and follow; I'll see you at the place where the ends meet and all is one...

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The time is eleven o'clock p.m. on a weeknight--we're not sure which--and the setting is a small bar on the outskirts of South Ashfield. Douglas Cartland has been unable to bring himself back through the doors of the homely little Lamb for some time now; he is plagued with the guilt of what he sees as the third death for which he is inadvertently reponsible. Henry has seen to it that Eileen is taken care of for tonight--one of her close friends from before, a young woman named Amy for whom she once babysat, is sleeping at her apartment in the event that she should be stricken with some late-night pregnancy-related need, what with this being her fifth month--and he has taken Douglas out to the bar for some conversation. He has noticed some changes in the detective's behavior of late, and none of them are good--he has stopped visiting. He has become withdrawn and brooding. He hasn't been returning phone calls. He hasn't shown up for work. He seems to have given up on everything, and Henry thinks he knows why.

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The atmosphere at the Goin' Jookin pub was one of partying; it was the sort of place one might go after graduating college...after flunking out for the fourth time, going back, and finally succeeding. There were at least fourty other patrons, probably more, and there was not a single moment when the juke box wasn't blaring pop tunes from some Smash Hits collection disc or another.

The bartender saw that Douglas' glass was empty and stopped by to fill it without question; Douglas didn't even have to ask this time, not like he had with his first seven drinks. He thanked the guy, who nodded back and went back to preparing some drinks for another party at the far end of the bar.

"Doug, come on," Henry said. "You're gonna drink yourself to death."

Douglas shrugged, took another sip. "I would insert some self-pitying line right there--probably something about how nobody would miss me--but I'll let you do the work. My brain's getting fuzzy. Not that I'm complaining."

"Don't," Henry said. "We're all in this together."

"_You're_ not," Douglas said, "and I don't want you to be. This is my problem, and I'll get through it. I'm not gonna die, not yet. I may be in a slump, but--" he paused, taking another swig. "I still know what I'm doing."

"I wish I believed you," Henry said, swiveling his bar stool away from the detective. From here, he could see a man standing in front of the juke box, dressed almost exactly like he was except for one detail; instead of a white shirt and faded jeans, this guy was wearing a _black_ shirt and faded jeans. "That guy's getting ready to play Fat Lip again. Want me to beat him to it?"  
"Nah," Douglas said, waving one hand with an abnormal amount of effort. "It's alright. Just don't let him play the whole album. I don't like that one by...what'd you say their names were?"

"Blink something," Henry said.

"Yeah, those guys," Douglas said. "I don't like that one."

"Come on," Henry said. "Quit drinking. You're gonna regret it tomorrow."

"Did you take me out to get me smashed, or to talk?"  
"A little of both, I guess," Henry said. "I figured you'd want to talk more if you were smashed. But that doesn't seem to be the case."

"There's nothing to talk about," Douglas said. "Heather's gone. She's not even _dead._ If she were, then I could at least know it was over for her. But it's not."

"You don't--"

"_You _know," Douglas said. "You didn't tell me what you saw down there, and now you say you don't remember, but I know you saw her. Even if it was only for a little while...you knew what happened to her."

"It wouldn't help to know," Henry said.

"You _would_ think that."  
Henry couldn't answer--anything he could've said would've sounded like it belonged in an old Christmas special, maybe "It's A Wonderful Life," complete with snowbound ending sequence. Instead, he could only listen to the pop-metal riffage that blared from the juke box as the man in the black shirt played "Fat Lip" by Sum 41 for the eleventh time since Henry and the detective had arrived two hours ago.

_I'm gonna go over there and rip that CD out of the juke box in a minute,_ Henry thought.

"You know," Douglas said, his words ever-so-slightly slurred by the onset of the alcohol, "the more I think about it, the less clear it is. I can't seem to figure out where exactly it was that I went wrong."

"What do you mean?" Henry raised his voice slightly to be heard over the juke box.

"Where I screwed up, missed a beat."

"You can't possibly--"

"Whatever we're going to do," Douglas interrupted, "let's do it outside. This music is giving me a headache."

Henry wasn't sure he wanted to postpone the conversation, not with it going the way it was...but it was probably worth it to get some peace and quiet (they had only themselves to blame for the noise; coming to a pub for a peaceful discussion was like going to a church to pick up single women). Douglas left a twenty-dollar tip on the counter and then he was gone--surprisingly agile for someone who'd taken in as much alcohol as he had this night.

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"It's worse now," Douglas said, shivering in spite of the warmth offered by his coat (though not by his hat; Henry felt odd seeing the detective without his little hat--in his mind, it had become ingrained into the guy's persona). He leaned over the railing on the pub's back porch area, taking in the tranquil view of the snowpacked meadow which stretched out ahead as far as the eye could see, marred by distant woods on either side and a brilliant open sunset on the far end.

"The weather?" Henry asked, joining the detective at the railing, though he knew the answer.

"You think it's ever going to get better?" Douglas pulled a cigar and a lighter from the inside pocket of his coat and lit up. "Or will it keep getting colder and colder?"

"It has to get better," Henry said. "It doesn't make sense for it to stay cold this long, in the middle of summer."

"We messed up," Douglas blurted.

Henry turned. "What?"

"We did something wrong," Douglas said. "I was thinking about what you said to me back there--about how I everything was pre-decided. I decided you're wrong."

"What are you talking about?"

"You already forgot?"

Henry winced.

"Maybe it _was_ just a dream," Douglas mused. "Maybe it was _all _a dream. But that doesn't explain how Heather..."

"It _wasn't_ a dream," Henry said.

"Then explain how you and I healed so quickly?"

Henry was silent.

"I came out of there closer to death than I've ever been," Douglas said, tapping on his cigar, loosing a quarter-inch of ash down over the railing as it came to mark its territory on the snow. "And just a few days later, I was up and running again. Like new."

"Almost," Henry said.

"Close enough for government work," Douglas argued. "Nobody heals that quickly. Not in real life."

"Things like that don't exist in real life, either," Henry retorted.

"So you _do _remember?"

"Some parts," Henry confessed. "Not much."

"We're forgetting," Douglas said with a sigh. "Is that because it didn't _technically_ happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it _did _happen," Douglas said, "but maybe it happened in a way that we can't understand. Maybe our brains...I don't know, maybe they don't know how to store the information. It's like when you get a new guy down at the bread factory, and he doesn't know where to stick the boxes when the truck comes in, so he just dumps them all over the floor. It takes forever to clean 'em up, and by the time you've got everything organized into the right boxes, you don't remember _which_ boxes went where in the first place."

Henry focused, trying to recall something--_anything_--from that night five months ago. He remembered something about a girl, and a demon...a name was coming...but it had caught up somewhere just beyond the edge of his perception. He couldn't remember its name...was that because he wasn't _supposed _to, or because he simply wasn't _able?_

Had any of that ever really happened at all?  
"When Heather and I went three years ago," Douglas resumed, "there was this lady, Claudia, who was in control of everything. The whole alternate world, or whatever it is...whatever kind of crazy thing lives there...she had control of it. Everything she believed was absolutely, undeniably _real_ for just a little while--the delusions and the insanity, it all became objective reality. Who knows--maybe if Heather hadn't stopped her, that other world would have just kept on growing?"

Henry shuddered at the idea of the town's power extending beyond its borders. He already knew it was capable of doing just that--the events in Room 302 earlier in the year had been evidence enough of that. But for something to just slide into place over objective reality, overlap it like a shingle on a rooftop...

"Maybe none of it was real," Douglas said. "James, Harry, the girl, the monsters...none. Maybe it was all just some crazy fantasy."

"But how can that be?" Henry almost shouted.

"Nothing there is consistent, anyway," Douglas said. "We already know that those kinds of things don't exist. We know those kinds of things can't happen--shifting spaces, rooms that exist in the same space and time, monsters trapped in between reality and unreality...it's all fiction."

"It can't...be," Henry muttered.

"It's possible," Douglas insisted. "At the very least."

At that moment--just as Henry was readying his response, opening his mouth to set it free--Douglas froze.

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"What's that?"

Henry attempted to follow the detective's gaze, out over the horizon and into the snowfield ahead. "I don't know," he admitted. "What are you talking about?"

"Somebody," Douglas said, adjusting his coat and bringing his cigar to rest snugly in the intersection of two of the railing's wooden boards. "Somebody's out there."

"No way," Henry said. "In this weather?"

"Come on," Douglas said, patting Henry on the shoulder as he tiptoed past. "He doesn't look too hot."

Henry needed only to look up to see that Douglas was right; the figure, just now emerging over the horizon, silhouetted against the moonlight (damn, that guy's eyesight was solid! Wait, wasn't he supposed to be hammered?), was staggering weakly through the snow; each step appeared more laborious than the last.

"What's he doing out here, I wonder?" Henry thought out loud, racing to keep time with the detective's absurdly-paced footwork. "He's got to be crazy!"

"Could have been in an accident," Douglas said, trudging through the merciless winter. They came upon a snowbank as he said this; Douglas didn't see it right away, and would have been sent tumbling face-first into it if Henry had not been there by his side, ever watchful, to catch him by the collar of his coat and yank him back up to his feet. "Thanks," the detective mumbled.

Henry did not answer. Instead, he just pointed. "Looks like...hey, wait a minute--"

"Oh, my God," Douglas said, coming to realize what was happening; all in one second, his breath left him, the strength ran out of his knees, and all of the forbidden memories came rushing back. But it was more than that; in that moment, he felt the emptiness in his chest re-emerge, felt the wound rip wide open, felt all of those horrible memories flying back in to take the place of what had once been there.

The figure stumbled ever closer; his skin was the pale blue of frostbite, and his bones trembled uncontrollably. But there was one particular aspect of his physical appearance that shocked the detective and the Receiver more than anything else, aside from the fact that it was not a he but a _she;_ for it wasn't just _any_ she.

"_Duh,"_ she attempted to call out, her voice as cracked as her frostbitten flesh. Her eyes flickered once, and then she fell forward into the snow, gone from this plane for the time being.

"_Heather!_" Douglas bellowed, pushing Henry aside in a fit of hopeful sorrow and storming through the three-and-a-half feet of snow to her aid. "Heather, oh, my God, it's...!"

Henry quickly pulled himself out of the snow, trembling; when they'd first come out into the night, he had barely felt the cold at all--probably because he had assumed they wouldn't be out in it long, and thus he'd had no need to worry about it--but now that they were far off into the plain, he was beginning to feel the wind sink its fangs deep into his bones.

Meanwhile, Douglas was lifting Heather into a sitting--or rather, lying--position, one arm around her shoulders. "Heather, say something! Come on, damn it!"

She only stared at him, her eyes blank. There was movement in them...but it was faint. It wouldn't be long; she was going.

"Henry," he barked, turning. "Help me!"

Henry hesitated, baffled.

"She's going to _die!_ We have to get her inside!"

Henry came to his senses, nodding his head hard in order to shock the already-numb flesh there back into life. "Right."

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"_Move, move!_"

Douglas' voice carried throughout the pub like an army drill sargeant, catching everyone's attention. Henry was pretty sure that every single person in the room looked Douglas' way, though nobody actually moved. "I need the table!"

That was enough for some of them; a man near the pool table in the center of the room began to converse with his nearby comrades, clearly attempting to scatter them out of the way so that Douglas could lay Heather up on the table.

"What's the deal?" this man--a flannel-shirt-clad individual with a gruff five-o'clock shadow who looked as if he belonged in the deep south as opposed to a pub in the north--asked, approaching the detective. Despite his apparently gawky question, he made sure to keep out of the detective's path until he had situated Heather on the table, using it like a hospital stretcher.

"Hypothermia," Douglas said. "God knows how long she's been out there." He turned away from her for the moment, facing the man who'd questioned him. "Just came walking up out of nowhere. Must've come a long way." Turning to the crowd now: "We've got to warm her up quickly. Can somebody call an ambulance? I don't know how much we can do here."

"Right on," Flannel Man said, and began brushing through the now-eerily-silent crowd towards the payphone by the door. He didn't even ask Douglas for fifty cents to use the phone, and for that Douglas was very, very thankful. He would have to get this gent's name before the night was through.

"Don't sweat it," the bartender--Roy, according to his nametag--called. "I got a phone right here." He reached beneath the counter and produced a handset, dialing on a concealed keypad with his free hand.

One of the other patrons called out against this declaration; "But I asked you earlier and you said all you had was the pay--"

"Shut up, John," the man's partner said, whopping him upside the head. The two looked ready to get into a fight, but at the last moment they seemed to sense the gravity of the moment and store their animosities awhile longer.

"It's only for emergencies," Roy called back, hesitating as the voice in the phone began to speak to him. "Yeah, lady? We got a lady here. Hypothermia, maybe. We need an amb'lance pretty snappy. Yeah...yeah...uh, huh...alright, then. Thankya much." He wrapped up his eloquent speech by dropping the handset back onto its cradle, then turned to Douglas. "Ten minutes, maybe. I got some blankets in the back--"

"Great," Douglas said. "Go get them, will you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Roy said, entering the door behind the bar.

Henry slid into place beside the detective, eyeing Heather's frozen form on the table. "I guess we really know how to crash a party, huh?"

Douglas said nothing.

"Here," Roy said, and the next thing Henry knew, his vision was blotted out by something huge and furry. After a brief panicked struggle, he was able to procure the towel from in front of his face.

"Thanks a million," Douglas said disconnectedly as he and Henry began to wrap Heather up in the fabric. Then, whispering into her ear: "Just another few minutes. Everything's going to be fine, just hold on for a few more minutes, alright?"

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The next few hours went by very, very slowly for Douglas.

He and Henry were allowed to ride with the ambulance, taking them to St. Jerome's for the second time since their excursion in Silent Hill. The drive only lasted about six minutes--they hadn't been that far away from the hospital in the first place, so that if they had been much closer, Douglas would have been able to carry her there himself--but it felt like hours. Nobody said anything; Henry had taken his cue back at the bar.

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Ten minutes later, Henry and Douglas stood in the waiting area of the St. Jerome's ER, waiting for word of Heather's condition. Henry was the first to speak.

"I'm gonna call Eileen really quick," he said, rising to his feet. "Are you gonna be alright?"

"I'm not a toddler," Douglas mumbled. Then, after a brief hesitation: "Sorry. Yeah."

Henry nodded, unable to conjure an appropriately-worded response, and journeyed off to the far end of the room where the only telephone sat in an alcove in the wall.

_How, _Douglas mused. _How, is what I want to know. How can she be alive?_

Hadn't her body been completely obliterated? Certainly, nobody could survive something like that...

_But why do I care about that so much? Anybody else would just be happy to have her back._

He knew why...he knew why he cared about that so much. He didn't trust her.

_What if it's not her? What if it's..._

"That's stupid," he muttered out loud, warranting strange looks from the elderly couple sitting just a few chairs to his right. It then occurred to him that he probably looked like a street bum, half-drunk as he already was. He hadn't shaved in awhile, and his clothes were nearing the end of their third soap-free day. It wasn't hard to imagine that he might have a strange smell about him.

_But it's _not_ stupid,_ he thought. _If it is...if that's what she is, then I know what I'll have to do. But...will I be able to?_

The powers-that-be seemed to be teasing him. It was like Harry's "test" all over again...but how could he apply what he knew this time around, when he still wasn't even sure if Harry had been telling the truth, whether the Heather he'd seen down there had been the real one or not?

"She was a little worried," Henry said, dropping back into line beside the detective, "but nothing serious. We should be out by morning, right?"  
"Depends," Douglas said.  
"What do you mean?"

"Depends on Heather," he amended.

Henry didn't feel the need to continue past that point; perhaps if he had, he might have caught wind of the logic Douglas had used to reach his final decision...hell, maybe he might have even had a chance to _change_ it.

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Two hours went by before they were allowed to see Heather; she had been moved up to a standard hospital room. Douglas was both heartened and unnerved by this turn of events; he didn't know which gut feeling to trust.

Doctor Hettson, a short, balding, glasses-bearing white fellow clad in the traditional hospital coat, lead them down the hall towards their destination, room 107. Douglas felt every step of the way, counting down the distance between himself and..._her._

"She was pretty bad when you guys brought her in," Hettson said, grinning a gutsy little grin, "but she got better pretty quick. It's amazing--you know, I don't think I've ever seen anybody recover from this severe a case of hypothermia as quickly as she has."

"Runs in the family," Douglas said, not realizing the implication he'd made.

"You should feel pretty lucky," Hettson said, nodding, and pulled away. "Let the nurse know if you need anything, alright?"  
"Sure," Douglas uttered, disconnected.

"Alright," Henry spoke up for him. "We will, thanks."

Hettson waved to them and turned back down the hallway.

"Henry," Douglas said, his voice faint and raspy.

"What is it?"

"If you don't mind," he said, almost whispering, "I'd like to have a moment alone in there...you know, before you come in."

"Yeah, sure," Henry said, patting the detective's shoulder. "Go for it. I'll be out here."

"Thanks," Douglas said, grasping the doorknob. One little turn, and one subsequent push...the creak of the door as it opened...and he was in.

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The room was eerily silent; there were none of the mechanical sounds so often associated with a hospital stay, for no active machinery plagued this humble abode. Only an inactive television set, suspended from the corner between the ceiling and the left-hand wall, and the bed in which Heather now lay. She might have been comatose, for she looked the part.

His heart running a marathon in his chest, he stepped closer to the bed. His feet were trembling; he was close, very close...the time to decide creeping ever closer...the point of no return, beckoning to him. Once this was said and done, there would be no turning back. He could only hope that he was right.

Without warning---no prior stir, no sleepy movement---her eyes fluttered open. She met Douglas' eyes, and they shared a long, silent exchange.

He hoped she could not sense his intentions.

"Doug," she said, her voice a choked whisper. "I came all this way...I came all this way."

"I know," he said, kneeling down by her side. "I messed up, alright?"  
"No--"

"I did," he insisted, taking her hand in his. "I made a grave mistake back there. I don't remember it now, not exactly...but I remember that I betrayed you."

"You didn't betray me," Heather said. "Listen, I forgive you, if that's what you want to hear."

"It's not," he retorted.

She seemed taken aback.

"When I first saw you, I was so sure that I had missed something..."

Now her confusion turned to anticipation; the shift was visible in her eyes.

"But I got to thinking down in the ER," he went on, shaking his head. "I don't know...I'm not sure what's going on here--I'm not even sure if any of this is _real--_but I think I finally have it figured out."

"What," Heather asked, clearly puzzled. "What are you talking about?"  
"Henry said that this is the way I do it every time," he said, rising to his feet one last time. "So if that's true...then whatever decision I make, must be the right one."

"Douglas, what--"

"Heather," he said, leaning down to her, "I'm sorry."

For a moment she was afraid, but when she felt his arm slip around her shoulder in a fearful embrace, she understood what was happening.

"I'm sorry I ever doubted you," he said; his voice was trembling.

"Don't be," she said. "We all get what we want in the end, anyway, don't we?"  
Douglas dared not to look her in the eye; he didn't have the courage. He just held on to her as he would the last of his greatest treasures...he stayed with her even as he felt their thoughts melding, their minds becoming one. He stayed with her even though he knew that his very role in eternity was changing before his eyes...he knew, and he did not care. Because he finally had her...and she was not going anywhere, not ever again.

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Henry had returned to the waiting room of the ER, thinking that he should probably call it a night. Neither of them had a car right now, but he didn't think Douglas would have a problem making the couple of blocks back to the pub alone. Henry had to get back to Eileen as soon as possible and fill her in on the new developments...ah, what an interesting week it had been!  
Just as he placed his hand on the door, though...he felt a jolt in his spine. A cold spike.

_What's happening?_

Something was happening, that was for sure.

"Just a feeling," he said, and pulled the door open. Any other day, such a feeling would have followed him until the darkest hour of the night, lost only to the inevitable onset of exhaustion-induced sleep. But tonight...tonight was special. Tonight was a turning point. Now he could rest easily, knowing that the great beyond would hassle him no more--not here in the land of the living, anyway. Now, he had only his life with Eileen and his friendship with Douglas and Heather to look forward to. Now, they _all_ had something to look forward to, to worry about and care about. So what if something bad happened along the way? That was life; just a matter of keeping the things one cared about in bigger proportions than the things by which one was bothered. For now, there was only a vast, empty plain, spread out across time between now and the day he would die; a plain ripe with opportunities...with happiness, with sadness...with victory, with loss...with trouble, with resolution.

Yeah...it was gonna be a sweet life.

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_When will I be yours?_

_When will I be mine?_

_When will I be yours?_

_When will I be mine?"_

"Bells and Horns in the Back of Beyond," _Midnight Oil_

_(Red Sails in the Sunset)_

END OF EPILOGUE

**END OF PART 3**

Sunday, November 18, 2007


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